


What have you done?

by DownpourOfFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Dark, Dark Jim, Dark Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Kisses, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mind Games, Mind Palace, Moaning, Mycroft and John to the rescue, Needles, Overdosing, Promises, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, There is so much comfort to come though I promise, You never really know, every emotion under the fucking sun, hopefully, ignorance, lots of imagery, no promises, please only read this if you are prepared to suffer, snuggles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 05:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8956861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels
Summary: Sherlock sneaks off to a drug den to get high, but as he trips, Moriarty escapes from his mind and comes out to play. Will John and Mycroft get there in time to save him?





	1. Sand draining through an hourglass

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Please don't blame me for this...I was updating my other works and then BAM, this evil piece fell from my fingertips - the idea was proper 4am stuff, and by far the darkest thing I've ever written. Yet I'm still quite proud of it.
> 
> I've compiled a playlist of appropriate soundtrack music for you to listen to as you're reading, for those who like that sort of thing. It's [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/1128856992/playlist/7CzhAXNhbsWbhKPgU26ZVZ)
> 
> Warning: The are graphic descriptions of blood/drug use/emotional discomfort etc that some people may find upsetting. If you know that might affect you then please read with caution or don't read at all. That said, enjoy! It's not all bad I promise.

Sherlock presses the needle into his arm. It doesn’t hurt like it normally does, there’s just a sharp sting, a prick that lasts a moment, and then it’s done.

He slumps backwards on the mattress and lets his head fall against the damp brick wall behind him. It shouldn’t take long before the drugs start to take effect. He’s taken a higher dosage than normal - a whole 5 percent more.

Enough to knock him out completely, he hopes.

As he starts to drift off guilt gnaws away at his insides and snakes around his stomach like a deadly disease. What will happen to John if he doesn’t make it? To Mycroft? Will they blame him?

He groans and pushes the thoughts away. _Not now,_ he thinks, _please not now._

The air is so damp that it clings to his chest, making his forehead bead with cold sweat. He fumbles at his shirt and tries to undo it, but fails as his vision begins to cloud over. Blurring as the world wavers in and out of focus. He can’t tell if he’s relieved or distraught. His brain puts up the usual struggle, tries to fight back. Wrestling with the inevitable like a wild animal that’s being smothered by a blanket.

He moans and convulses as the drugs begin to take effect. They make him swallow air, gasp frantically as he loses control over his nerve actions. It’s like his mind is finally backing into a corner, being forced to shut down. Trapped.

He hopes no one finds him here. He deliberately chose a place he’s never been, somewhere so far across town that it’s almost out of London. He can’t get caught. They won’t understand if he does, won’t listen.

He unclenches his fists and lets his head slump forward as the final wave of drowsiness overtakes him.

 _“John…”_ He moans softly as he slips into the dark world of unconsciousness. “ _Please_ …”

 

***

 

John wakes to the sound of a baby screaming. It’s Rosamund. _His_ baby.

“Ugh…” Mary shifts in the sheets beside him. “I’ll get it.”

John grumbles a word of thanks before pulling the covers over his arm and rolling over onto his chest, listening as the sound of his wife’s footsteps recede to the hallway. The night is still young, and only the dull orange light from street lamp outside illuminates the room. Silence swarms around him. He finds his gaze fixed on the shadows lying still on the floor, outlines cast by the furniture. For a moment he thinks he sees one of them move but then dismisses it. Why isn’t he sleeping?

Sherlock.

Butterflies flutter softly in his stomach. _He’s probably fine_ , he thinks. Probably slumped in bed or passed out on the sofa after spending hours composing on the violin. Or perhaps he’s out on a case, tracking down a criminal with Lestrade. _He’ll be fine_ , John tells himself, repeating the words again and again in his head until he forgets how many times he’s said them.

But it still doesn’t make him believe it.

It’s extraordinary how much he finds himself missing Baker Street. The stories of the clients, the hustle and bustle of Mrs Hudson, the faint sound of the London traffic echoing off the walls. It’s too quiet here. He _longs_ for the cases, for the adrenaline that used to pump through his veins - the midnight pursuits. He wants more than anything to be back with the man with a nightmare personality and charming smile…

It’s strange because the feeling has only come back again recently, a couple of weeks after Sherlock’s return. Before that John was actually moving on, progressing, finding alternatives. Rebuilding his life with Mary.

But he can’t have both of them. He _can’t_.

He exhales loudly through his nose and stares up at the ceiling. He’s wide awake now, and a sick feeling has settled in the pit his stomach. What if Sherlock isn’t fine? What if he’s lying in an alleyway, bleeding out from a gunshot wound. What if he’s had a row with Mycroft, or is thinking about Irene. What if he’s fallen victim to temptation….

John sits up on his elbows and reaches for his phone.

_No new messages._

He sighs and flops back down again, his head falling heavily against the pillow.

Will he ever stop worrying about this?

 

***

 

 

 

Mycroft sits at his desk and scrolls endlessly on his phone. Emails, emails. All the same just packaged differently. Familiar names and places - occasionally new ones - swapped around endlessly like players on a monopoly board. Each message is a different disaster to deal with, a new crisis to sooth and unravel.

It’s hard to describe what he actually does - there’s just so much to it. Shutting people up, forcing them to talk. Switching certain goods to different locations. Exchanging dark words to mindless MP’s on the phone. Everything.

 _He’s_ the one that calms all the government fuck ups - orders them out. Finds each one and untangles it neatly before hiding it far from away the public’s view. It’s work that never stops. Dots that don’t stay connected. A task that always needs to be re-assembled.

He sits back in his desk chair and rakes a tired hand through his hair. He should sleep. He needs to be up again in less than 5 hours.

His phone suddenly flashes on the desk in front of him. Anthea.

_CCTV just picked Sherlock up in an alleyway in Croydon. Verify?_

Mycroft’s stomach twists, and his fingers start to twitch involuntarily. Sherlock’s hasn’t got a case on at the moment - not to his knowledge - and intelligence is showing that John and Lestrade are both asleep at their separate addresses. Irene is not in the country, and Moriarty is dead.

Croydon? So far from central London. An alleyway?

He fumbles with his phone and types a message as quickly as he can manage, his fingers blurring as they rush across the screen.

 _Denied. Send me the footage and call for a car immediately. M_  
  


_***_

 

Sherlock floats in and out of consciousness ceaselessly. His limbs are limp, spiritless, and there’s saliva leaking from the corner of his mouth, drooling down his chin. At one point he collapses onto his side. He  _knows_ he’s gurgling rubbish, groaning loudly about the one person he really shouldn’t. But it doesn’t matter, this place is empty anyway.

His mind feels white and vacant.

Like an empty room. There’s no thoughts, no talking. Just wide expanses of blank space.

He _loves_ this part.

Because he’s done it. He’s switched off. Numbed the pain so that nothing remains. It’s just him and a wonderful emptiness. A mind that has slowed to a near standstill, what most people would probably consider a normal.

See, no one understands what's it's like to live like this - not even Mycroft.

His whole life he's suffered a constant background noise, a glaring buzz that’s impossible to switch off, not even for a moment. 

But he’s done it now.

He tries to open his eyes but feels them rolling backwards. With great effort he shifts so that he’s lying flat on the mattress and tries to gather the strength to rip apart the remaining buttons on his shirt. Because, although it’s cold in here - he’s _hot._ So hot he’s sweating all over. Moisture is soaking through his clothes and seeping into the mattress. It’s the only thing ruining this actually, it’s-

He doesn’t normally sweat this much.

There’s a tug from somewhere deep within him. A horrible lurching in his stomach that indicates something is wrong. He feels his conscience fighting back, contracting the emptiness, the white room, and shrinking it down in size. He can only form one thought. And it’s not a good one to start a high-dosage trip with.

What if five percent was too much?

 

***

 

John wakes to someone shaking him. Someone pushing and pulling at his shoulders. Hard.

“Huh? Mary?”

“John wake up, your-”

“Uh,” John tries to flush the drowsiness from his brain. “Right, Rosie again, my turn-”

“No.” Mary snaps. “Not her, your phone-”

“What? Oh.”

John shakes himself awake sharply and sits upwards. His phone is flashing and vibrating on the dresser beside him. He grasps for it clumsily.

“Hello?”

“John? It’s Mycroft.”

“Mycroft…?” John mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. “Jesus what time is it?”

“2.39am. Now get dressed immediately and get in the car waiting for you outside. Don’t bring Mary. I’ll meet you there. See you-”

“Wait-” John’s head is spinning. The sick feeling in his stomach had intensified to uncharted territory. He feels like he’s in a daze. Is he dreaming?

“What do you mean? Where am I meeting you? What’s going on?”

“Sherlock.” The elder Holmes responds darkly. “I’ve got an intuition. Hurry.”

He hangs up before John gets the chance to reply.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Mycroft sits back into the cool leather seats of the car and waits as his phone downloads the CCTV footage. It seems to take forever. The percent ticking upwards slower than he can physically bear. It’s torture.

But it finally comes through.

The video is black and white, grainy, and moves by the frame. An imagine of dimly lit alleyway flickers slowly. He’s got to give Anthea credit for identifying Sherlock with this quality of footage.

The alleyway remains empty for a few seconds before a man with a long dark coat and a rumpled white shirt stumbles from a metal door on the left - likely the back of a club. His coat collar is up, and his scarf is hanging loosely around his neck. His hair is stuck together in clumps.

He looks worse than Mycroft’s ever seen him.

As he staggers closer to the camera it’s clear this is far more serious than Mycroft first expected. A heavy weight drops through him, sinking into his chest. He suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe.

Because his brother is as white as a ghost, a sickly pale. His cheekbones hollowed out and angular. There’s puffy white bags under his eyes.

How could Mycroft have missed this? How did he let his own brother slip under the radar?

Sherlock looks like he’s going to overdose. In fact, Mycroft is sure of it.

He tries desperately to stop the world from turning upside down in his head and uses an intelligence database to get the locations of all the nearest drug hotspots. There’s one fifteen minutes away from where Sherlock was last seen. Five.

Within seconds he’s got an address.

 

***

 

This has never happened before.

As the minutes tick by Sherlock starts to feel the tables turning, like sand draining through an hourglass. Slowly but surely he starts to slip from heaven to hell. To the darkest corners of his mind. To where the demons are waiting with their blood red eyes and snarling teeth.

And it’s one person who controls them all.

Moriarty infectes his dreams like a slow acting disease, a cancer. A black poison that corners him from all directions. Snakes under his feet like a python, slides through his hair like smoke. Soon he’s everywhere.

It all starts with a laugh, a silent cackle that gradually gets louder and louder until suddenly it’s so deafening that it's threatening to burst his eardrums.

“No!” Sherlock’s gasps, his body jolting as his knees contract towards his chest. “Not you.” Tears begin to squeeze from the corners of his eyes.

_Did you miss me?_

“Please, no!” Sherlock begs, the words falling from his mouth in a jumbled blur, echoing loudly off the empty concrete walls. “Leave me. Leave me alone!”

But shouting only seems to make it worse and his mind decides to crank up the tricks. He suddenly sees Moriarty’s pale face flash before his eyes, far too close. There’s bright red blood leaking from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. His eyes are completely black, bottomless pits. And when he grins, there's parts of a human heart in his mouth.

_I’m gonna burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock lets out a scream and thrashes his arms about frantically in front of his face. He coughs and splutters uncontrollably. He  _needs_ to make this stop. He can't handle this. He’ll do anything. Moriarty has never been able to penetrate this deep into his mind before. Never managed to get to him like this when he’s high.

_You thought you’d got rid of me, didn’t you Sherlock?_

Sherlock shakes and trembles, and has to bite down hard on the corners of his mouth to stop himself from calling out. The metallic taste of blood floods his taste buds. He feels like he’s drowning in it.

“You’re dead.” He whines, the words as loud as he can manage. “You shot yourself, I watched you. I watched you-” He breaks off into a yell as another spasm takes control of his body, causing his chest to jerk upwards.

The laughter floods his ears again.

_Dead? Sure. Whatever you want to believe Sherlock, but you know I’ll always still be here. Corrupting your dreams, altering your thoughts. It’s the memory that matters now you see, your imagination will do the rest. So brilliant, isn’t it?_

_“_ Ah,” Sherlock gags as the image of Jim lying in a bath of scarlet red blood penetrates his mind, taints his senses. He feels Jim whispering into his ear. The sensation causing tingles to spark down his spine and making him want to retch. He shifts on the mattress.

_The best bit is Sherlock, what cure is there? What cure is there for insanity? Meds don’t work on you…. you’re resistant to most of them. It looks like even drugs don’t work anymore, I’ve found my way through them too!_

Sherlock’s whole body starts to tremble.

_What was that one thing that did help? You know, the one thing you loved most that I destroyed?_

_“_ Don’t say his name!” Sherlock babbles. “Please. That stuff is private. Get. Out. Of. My. Head.”

_Oh it was John wasn’t it. The little army soldier. Like a lion but more loyal. Why isn’t he by your side again?_

“You!” Sherlock rasps, his voice cracking as he struggles for breath. He twists and shudders on his back. Eyes darting rapidly back and forth behind his fluttering eyelids. “You made me leave. And he found-”

_That’s right Sherlock. He’s with Mary now, and aren’t they cute together? It’s just gonna be you and me from now on. Together until the end. Because there’s no one coming to help you. You’re gonna die here tonight, in this disgusting slimy drug den, with the syringe by your side and the image of me in your head. You picked a good spot actually. No one can hear you. Was that so you could moan helplessly about John? Well, he’s not coming darling. No one is coming to the rescue. It’s just you and me now...you and me..._

 

_***_

 

The journey feels like forever, because it _is._ They get held up by a truck and are set back thirty minutes at least. Thirty whole tortuous minutes that John has to spend going crazy in the back of a car. He’s actually losing his mind. He wants to cry, to throw up, to kick something.

He won’t be able to handle it if Sherlock dies. Not for the third time. Especially not when he awoke with that feeling earlier and carelessly ignored it.

He. Won’t. Cope.

He speaks on the phone to Mycroft for roughly ten minutes. They formulate a plan: Locate Sherlock, assess what drugs he’s taken, and then get him into an ambulance and try and keep him conscious. If he’s taken a syringe they will be nothing else they can do.

The car finally skids to halt outside a large run-down victorian building a few streets away from the main road. It’s got faded red brickwork and slanting window ledges. There’s graffiti on the walls. All the glass is smashed through.

He practically leaps from the car and makes off down the path towards the doorway. Red hot adrenaline pumping through his veins, fueling his system. He feels absolutely nothing other than the desire to run, the need to seek Sherlock out and help him immediately.

To save his life.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“John?” Mycroft presses the phone to his ear. The metal feels cold and unnatural against his skin. His fingers are already going pink. His breath is coming out in clouds in front of him. “John are you here?”

“I’m coming, by the stairs now, which floor?”

“Second.” Mycroft doesn't bother to hide the fact that he’s panting and wheezing. He’s climbed the stairs and now he finds himself stood in a large empty hallway. The whole building is absorbed by the smell of damp concrete and cobwebs. It’s pitch black. The only light he’s got is the torch from his phone.

“Sherlock?” He calls.

But nothing other than the sound of his own voice echoes back at him.

Then heavy footsteps, a hand on his shoulder.

“John,”

The army doctor is red in the face and panting hard, but he has a better torch at least. He doesn’t even stop to look Mycroft in the eye.

“This way,” He says suddenly. “I heard something.”

They dart through a wooden door to their left. Even in the dark, Mycroft can tell it’s a sizable room, with high ceilings and moonlight streaming in from bay windows at either end.

He holds his breath as John comes to a halt beside him and scans the walls with his torch. There’s nothing, just tattered remains of mattresses, beer bottles, litter, and then-

“Oh my god.”

All the blood drains from Mycroft’s body.

  


***

 

John dashes forwards. Sherlock is lying face up on a mattress in the corner of the room. He’s shaking uncontrollably, hands trembling at his sides. John’s first thought is that he’s having a seizure. He’s never seen anyone so drenched in their own sweat.

“Sherlock! Oh my god, oh god, what have you taken, what-”

His best friend jolts at his approach, groaning loudly before producing a stream of inaudible noises. His eyes flicker open and shut again. His body contracts and then relaxes. Blood leaks from the corner of his mouth. He’s never looked so pale.

“Oh my god,” John drops instinctively to his knees, fumbles for his friend's pulse, but Mycroft suddenly comes up behind him and pushes him roughly out the way. He starts to search frantically through Sherlock’s pockets, as if his life dependes on it.

“Where’s the list?” He mumbles.

“What?”

“WHERE’S THE LIST?!”

John collapses backwards. He’s never heard Mycroft yell before.

“What list?” He cries, his voice laced with panic. “I don’t understand?!”

“The list.” Mycroft repeats, his hands still scurrying all over the ground near Sherlock, searching blindly in the darkness. “We have an agreement you see, that every time he overdosed he would write a list. A list of everything he’s taken. It makes things easier when - WHY CAN’T I FIND IT?!”

John forces air to inflate his lungs. He shuffles so he's back at Sherlock's side. Places his hands on the detective's flaming cheeks and tries to calm his movements, but as he does so he accidentally nudges something light with his foot.

“Wait Mycroft! Is it this?” He holds up a damp ball of crumpled paper.

Mycroft snatches it from his hands. He places the torch between his teeth and unravels it as fast as he can without making it rip.

“Oh my…” The words get mumbled with the torch in his mouth. He drops it to the floor and pulls out his phone to call an ambulance.

John moves back to Sherlock’s side and starts to carry out the same medical procedure he would on any patient. He checks his pulse, rapid and sporadic. He tries to put him in the recovery position, but Sherlock is refusing to keep still. He groans and yells, his limbs shaking immensely. His murmurs are starting to form sentences. He seems to be arguing with someone, but John can’t tell who.

“Sherlock!" John palms at his best friend’s forehead, at his cheeks, at his chest. “Can you hear me? Listen, I need you to stay conscious. I know you’re fighting this but you need to keep going, for me Sherlock. For John, I’m here.”

The sickening sound of a sob feels breaks out from somewhere behind him. Mycroft has finished on the phone and is sat back on his heels. John doesn't need to shine the torch to know there’s tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Christ Sherlock...” He whispers, staring down gravely at his brother. “What have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued....  
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed my writing, it really does keep me going.


	2. Drowing in a swamp of despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock slips away. Mycroft panics. Will John be forced to say what he really feels?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aahhh! Hello again! Unfortunately this chapter didn't come to me as naturally as the last one did, (it took a lot of long evenings and frustrated cups of tea), but I've done it. I wanted to get this whole story finished before S4 but sadly that's looking unlikely now, however, I'll still try! I really hope this is good enough because I feel like you've all got high expectations now! (eek) But anyway, enjoy!

Sherlock feels the air around him get slightly warmer. There’s noise, a few movements, muffled talking. Someone’s breath is fluttering lightly over his face, his lips…

Has he been found?

“Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?”

Oh god it’s John. His beautiful, desperate John. Running his hands all over his chest, stroking his face, pulling back the hair that’s clumped together on his forehead. How on earth did he get here? How did he find him?

Sherlock groans loudly and tries to turn his head to the wall. Shame and relief rolling around in equal measure in his stomach, crashing against each other like tidal waves. It’s the worst feeling in the world. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or absolutely devastated.

More talking surrounds him. There's more words he can hardly hear. It’s like there’s foam in his ears or an invisible layer of glass separating him from the sound. He can only make out a few syllables, faint snippets of a sentence.

“...what have you…”

But the noise is varying in pitch. Dipping and differing as it floats down from somewhere above and echoes inside his eardrums. It appears there’s a second voice, one that’s lower than John’s, more sombre.

_Oh god._

The feeling of dread crashes into him like a high-speed train. _Please_ don't let it beMycroft as well. Anyone but him. His big brother. The one person who will be most disappointed, the most upset.

Sherlock throws his hands to his face, whimpering quietly as more tears trickle down from the corners of his closed eyes. He can’t _stand_ the fact that the two people he loves most are actually seeing him like this - the worst he’s ever been. Regret sinks through his whole body, his chest, like an unfathomable weight that's crushing him into nothing. He just wants to disappear, to vanish. To die right now so that all the pain is over, the suffering, to-

_What’s the matter Sherlock? Feeling embarrassed about all this now? That’s a bit human for you, isn’t it?_

“Go away!” Sherlock grinds down on his teeth and inhales sharply. “Please, I'm begging you.” He tosses and turns on his back. Digs his nails into his palms so hard they start to bleed.

_Who, me?_

A venomous laugh vibrates inside his ears as the image of Jim sliding a blood-soaked tongue over his lips flickers before him. The world's only consulting criminal moves closer, his imaginary thighs straddling Sherlock’s hips as the blood from his mouth drips steadily from his pale skin. His eyes flame brighter than Sherlock’s ever seen them.

_Oh I’m not going anywhere Sherlock, just because our little soldier and Iceman have found you... doesn’t mean you’re safe. They can’t see me remember, it’s all in your head. They have no idea what’s going on. Besides, they can’t do anything…_

“They’ll call an ambulance,” Sherlock pants, turning his head sharply from side to side to try and clear the image of Jim from his mind. But it isn't working, nothing is, and Sherlock can’t help but yelp and whimper as Jim starts to creep closer, his nose now only inches away from Sherlock’s lips. As he grins, his fiery breath brushing like hot steam over Sherlock's face, scalding it, Sherlock swears he can taste spearmint.

_Huh? Oh don’t be so naive Sherlock, you know the ambulance isn’t going to get here in time. You’re too far gone already, darling. I reckon you’ve got less than ten minutes left…_

 

 

_***_

 

 

Mycroft feels as if the world is collapsing around him. It’s like gravity has shattered into little pieces, slanted sideways. His whole body is starting to feel weightless, numb, and his vision takes a while to sharpen when he moves.

He’s never seen Sherlock - or anyone for that matter - appear to be in so much pain. His little brother is tossing and turning on his back, shaking violently, a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. The sound of his cries fills the room and his delirious rambles bounce off the walls. It looks like he’s finally lost it.

All of this is making Mycroft’s head spin - something he hasn’t experienced for many years. The feeling of panic is almost unrecognisable - dangerous. The world sways in front of him. He feels dizzy and lightheaded. Like he might faint or throw up at any moment, actually drowning in a swamp of his own despair.

He can't stand seeing Sherlock like this, physically can’t bear it.

“What do we do!?” John is asking, his panicked voice filling the room, the only noise competing against the sound of Sherlock's distressing moans. “What do we do!?”

Mycroft opens his mouth and then closes it again, like a goldfish. His vision clouds against his will. His eyes brim with tears.

_What do they do?_

The truth is that for once he does not know. Not even slightly. He wobbles as he rises to his feet and starts to pace frantically. Clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides.

“Mycroft?!”

Sherlock lets out another agonising yell. His whole body tensing as his muscles contract inwards. Dark blue veins start to line his pale arms. More blood dribbles from his mouth and stains the fabric of his shirt. It’s actually horrific, impossible to witness. Mycroft feels sure he is about to be sick. He can’t even look at him, his own brother, he-

“I’m sorry John, but I just can’t - I can’t handle this. I have to-”

“What!?”

A wave of pure desperation flares in John’s eyes, the type you’d only ever see in the eyes of a soldier, of someone who has already experienced the depths of hell and is now dealing with something _much_ worse. 

“I have to leave - just for a moment. I can’t-”

“What do you mean?” John calls, anger burning in his voice like fire does gunpowder. “MYCROFT?!”

But Mycroft is already walking away, his knees threatening to give way underneath him. He heads straight to the door, out into the empty darkness of the hallway.

“Seriously? I can’t _believe_ you-”

John’s voice fades as Mycroft passes through the doorway and rounds the corner. At the earliest opportunity he drops his head against the wall and lets out a long and shallow breath. Forces himself to gag several times but nothing comes. It's fear. Fear is pulsing through his bloodstream, sparking like electricity in his brain. It’s corrupting the signals, making the dots impossible to connect. He can hardly breathe, can’t _think._

What if for once this is a crisis that he cannot solve, a wrong he can’t right. What if Sherlock dies, right here, in this disgusting place, before Mycroft ever gets the chance to tell him how sorry he is, how much he wishes things were different. What if-

 _No._ He sags against the wall and takes several deep breaths, in, out. In, out. He needs to think about this. Try and wipe the panic from his brain. _Focus_ _._

Surely no one in history has taken this amount of drugs and survived. No one. Sherlock must have known it was suicide to do so. Is that what they are witnessing here? An attempted suicide? For _real_ this time?

He squeezes his eyes shut and clamps his hands over his ears, blocking out the sound of Sherlock's moans that are finding their way into the hallway. He needs to go back in there. Needs to contact the ambulance and let them know exactly where they are. This may be destroying him, turning his brain to ash and burning his heart into a million pieces. But he can’t let it win, not yet. He’s got to try his best to fix this, he owes Sherlock that at least.

With a deep breath, he marches back through the door and back to the corner of the room to where John is hunched over his shrieking brother, broken glass and litter all around them. He crouches down beside John.

“Back sorry. I needed to clear my head and think, I-”

“Shh.” John throws up a hand and silences Mycroft immediately, not even bothering to turn his head and face him. He cranes his neck. “What did you say sorry Sherlock? Who are you talking about…?”

Mycroft sits back and watches silently as John’s gentle hand caresses Sherlock’s cheek, the pad of his thumb smearing across some of the blood on his lips.

“Who is going to hurt you?”

Mycroft bites down on his lip, because, John is whispering the words so softly, so gently, that in any other situation you would think he was speaking to a child.

“Hmtfh,” Sherlock mumbles, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“Okay.” John trails his hand down towards Sherlock’s chest, as if he was smoothing out a piece of silk. “Well no one can hurt you, ok? I’m here now.”

Mycroft pulls out his phone and texts the authorities their coordinates before shuffling a little closer. He tries to catch John’s eye.

“You’ve calmed him down a bit.”

“No,” John whispers, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. “He’s only just stopped. He seems to be talking to someone, in his head, he’s tripping.”

“Right.”

Mycroft spots some faded purple plastic lying at Sherlock’s side. It's the syringe. He picks it up and shines his torch, the glare from the light making him squint. Within a moment he's memorised the faded measurements written along the side. “Is this what he used?”

“Think so." John replies. "Ambulance coming?”

“Six minutes.”

Sherlock jolts suddenly, causing both Mycroft and John to jump violently. “No!” He gasps, “Don’t - don’t tell them that. Please...”

Mycroft narrows his eyebrows. _Them?_  Why is Sherlock referring to him and John in the third person? _Who is he dreaming about, who is he…?_

_Oh._

Suddenly everything slides together, clicks, with the satisfaction of a finished jigsaw puzzle or a door slamming in the wind.  _Oh._

It’s Jim.Of course. It'sJim Moriarty - or the memory of him at least - torturing Sherlock, making him suffer from the inside out. Of _course_ it would be him. How the hell has he been so blind?

“John!” Mycroft clasps his hands together and leans over to whisper in the smaller man’s ear. “It’s Jim. That's who Sherlock is fighting in his head. He’s mentioned this before, once. That sometimes he gets dreams, visions that he can’t control. That’s what’s happening here.”

John shakes his head in disbelief, staring at Mycroft as if he’s just spoken in a different language. “Really?”

“STOP!” Sherlock sobs, his chest rising and falling sharply as he thrashes and tries to push John’s hands away from him. “We’re not the same! You know nothing about me...” The words trail off as he keels over in pain, turning on his side and clutching his knees to his chest.

“Shit,” John mutters under his breath. “He's getting worse. Sherlock? Sherlock, it’s okay I’m here.”

"Ah," Sherlock twists and turns as another spasm overtakes him.

“He’s not listening.” Mycroft mutters, the panic starting to return to his body, burn through his veins.

The detective cries out once more, a piercing yell.

“Check his pulse.” Mycroft orders.

John struggles to keep his hand still for long enough. His best friend is squirming and jolting beneath him, like a mouse trying to escape from a trap.

“It’s got faster." John breathes. "It’s too fast now Mycroft, he might-”

"Oh god." 

Mycroft shuts his eyes, fear flooding through his body and making his fingers tremble. A vision of the next 24 hours flashes before him. Sherlock going still, his pulse disappearing. The sound of John's sobs as he tries to resuscitate him, the ambulance arriving, the paramedic's trying too. Failing. The hospital. The bleach white walls. The numerous doctors, police. Talking, endless questions. Mycroft not being able to find all the answers. Mummy and Daddy arriving, the most harrowing disappointment in their eyes. Bitter resentment.  _You promised us, Mike. You promised you'd keep him away from all this. We trusted you._

 _No._ Mycroft shakes his head.  _No._

John is reaching over Sherlock's trembling body, grabbing his wrists and trying to pin them down, telling him that he needs to listen, to pull through. But it's simply not _enough._

“Stop.” Mycroft says, his voice suddenly deadly serious, almost unrecognisable. It cuts through all the noise in the room like a shard of ice.

“What?”

Mycroft tilts his chin and blinks once. He chooses his next words carefully. 

"Tell him, John. Please. What you've always known but never said - the both of you. He needs to hear it now." 

John squints. "Tell him? Tell him what, Mycroft? What are you talking about?" 

The elder holmes gulps. "Oh come on, don't make me say it. It's obvious, isn't it? There's always been something else, ever since the beginning. Tell him how you feel about him!" 

"Mycroft." John tilts his head to the side, a dangerous glint in his eyes. His voice starts to tremble. "What are you implying...I love Mary." 

"Oh don't give me that! Don't-"

Sherlock suddenly groans quietly below them. A noise that's almost silent. It's the sound of defeat, of surrender. His face has now drained entirely of colour. He looks like a ghost, a corpse. More blood bubbles from his mouth as he exhales.

John looks back up. His eyes now misty. His voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper. "But you don't understand... it's too late for all that, Mary's my wife. We have a child together now." 

Mycroft places a heavy hand on John's shoulder, stares deeply into his eyes, as if he can see planets tucked away in there, whole universes. As if he can see right through him, to the darkest most secret corner of his heart.

"I know. But you know that's not the truth, not all of it. Admit it, you feel for him, you-

John's voice cracks. "I can't-"

"Please." Mycroft lowers his voice, tightens his grip on John's shoulder. "Then for my sake at least. Tell him. Tell him how you really feel, how you've _always_ felt. This might be the one thing that saves him." 

John looks as if the world is about to evaporate around him. 

"Please." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh I know I'm sorry about the cliffhanger. I'll try update as soon as possible I promise. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!  
> Also if you want to follow my work (& my general screaming about s4), then please follow my Instagram @221bsherlockfandom_  
> Thanks!


	3. Another Dimension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be something comforting about the number three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Sorry for the delay, life has been hectic, and of course the arrival of series 4 completely blew my mind. I'm slightly miffed though because I thought I had more time to get this finished before a certain someone died. But anyhow, this is obviously set before episode one. I have a feeling this chapter might take you to hell and back...enjoy!!!

The sound of Sherlock’s shallow breathing is all that fills the room, the air seeming to scratch sharply along his throat as it leaves his chest; rasping against his lungs. Each breath he takes becomes a little more desperate, more fragile.

John closes his eyes. This can’t be real, can it?

Surely this is a joke; some stupid trick set up by a nutcase to get John to confess how he really feels. It’s like he’s actually living in a nightmare, trapped in a horror film he can’t escape from. He needs to wake up, right now. This can’t really be happening.

It  _can’t_ be.

The sound of blood throbs thickly in his ears. Everything feels very slow, very surreal. In the haze he notices that Sherlock’s mouth has stopped bubbling.

He’s not actually going to say this. Here. Now. Surely he’s not...

Mycroft shifts beside him. Hesitantly, he reaches out and places an unsteady palm across Sherlock’s forehead before closing his eyes. John knows he’s not going to ask again. He doesn't need to.

_Please._

His plea echoes inside John’s head once more. The sound of Sherlock’s breathing resonates loudly in his ears, and the smell of damp concrete and blood merge together in his nose, flooding his senses. Everything feels off balance, slanted.

It's like he’s underwater. In another dimension.

But he  _can’t_ be, that’s simply not an option. He needs to resurface right now - wake up. Because for once this is no joke, no nightmare; there’s no hidden twist waiting to jump out at the end, no backup plan, no hero coming to save the day. This is  _real_ and it's happening now. He  _is_ the hero.

“Sherlock?”

John leans closer, his fingers curling around the damp fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.

What if Mycroft is right? What if he - John Watson - is the only person who can do this. The only one who can say the words that will make a difference.

“Sherlock...I…”

Mycroft nods silently beside him.

“I need to tell you something,” he continues, “Ok? It’s important, it’s-” He grimaces and drops his head between his shoulders. How on earth can he possibly say this? Admit what he hasn’t even admitted to himself. How is he supposed to explain it, transform such a tangled mess of feelings into words? Where does he even start?

He threads his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and starts to rub reassuring circles into the detective’s scalp.

_Sherlock Holmes._

The first person to throw his world upside down; to save him from God knows what after the army. A man he's laughed with, killed for, mourned over. A person with the most incredible stories - _adventures_  - who died and came back from the dead, twice. Truth be told, he's been the real centrepiece of his life these past 6 years. Someone he’d do  _anything_ for.

Sherlock’s finger twitches. “John…?” The words are barely a whisper.

“Yes,” John grasps Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Yes it’s me. I’m here - I’m with you. It’s going to be okay...he’s not  _real_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock groans softly. His eyes flutter behind his closed eyelids. “Moriarty...”

“I know it is...and I know he says stuff, and that he hurts you, but it’s not real...do you understand? He’s dead.” John leans in even closer and closes his eyes. Their foreheads are almost touching.

“John…”

Sherlock’s voice is so quiet, so soft, that John almost wonders if he’s imagining it.

“Yes Sherlock, I’m here. I need to tell you…”

“He’s won.”

The consulting detective suddenly goes completely still, like ice. His fingers stop trembling, his lips stop quivering, eyelids stop fluttering. He stops. Entirely. Shuts down from the outside. It’s like watching ripples on water run out of momentum.

Mycroft jolts forwards. “No! Sherlock!”

All the air leaves John’s lungs. Time jumps forwards in one big leap. He collapses onto Sherlock’s body and starts shaking him frantically, presses for his pulse, but it’s gone.

“No Sherlock, please!”

John’s hands find their way underneath Sherlock’s body, against his face and through his hair. He drops his forehead against Sherlock’s. Their noses slide past each other.

“Sherlock please,” the older man growls. “You can’t go - not yet. I-I need to tell you something. It’s...well…” He wrestles with his words before taking one sharp breath.” I...I think I love you. I always have done. Ever since that evening at Angelo's. Ever since we moved in together. Oh god I love you so much.” He squeezes his eyes shut as Sherlock’s fingers go limp in his hands. “Oh my god please,  _please_...I know it’s been difficult, and that we argue sometimes but, y-you need to know that you’re…” he gulps loudly. “...literally everything to me. And I love you and I need you to-”

The words break off as he drops down and sinks his lips onto Sherlock’s own, capturing their mouths in a thoroughly devastating kiss. Rosy red meeting pale blue. He applies such a tender amount of pressure, lets the moment linger. Nothing has ever come so directly from deep inside his heart. His warm breath travels into Sherlock’s mouth.

But the only man he’s ever loved doesn’t move, not for a second.

“Please Sherlock,” John sobs, tears dribbling onto the other man’s cheeks. “Wake up. This can’t be it. I love you.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

_You’re gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you._

It’s the same words, spoken the same as before, but different. Darkness has started to close in on Sherlock from all directions, all angles. He feels trapped inside a cage, a dark room he’s long forgotten the way out of. It appears there’s no escape. Shadows of unknown figures start to flicker in front of him, all laughing. One by one the outlines start to resemble everyone he’s ever cared for; Mycroft...Molly... John…all telling him to hurry up and get on with it. Their words strike him like bullets.

_That’s all it takes, one lonely naive man desperate to show off…_

_Oh, grow up!_

_Don’t be stupid._

_You always were so stupid._

_You always say such horrible things. Always._

_How dare you betray the love of your friends._

_You machine!_

_Daddy’s had enough now..._

Moriarty himself is fading into the shadows, arms spread wide; his whole body vanishing slowly except for his eyes which gleam a dark red. His lips twist up into a crooked smile.

_Welcome to hell Sherlock, you’re nearly there. Can you feel your blood going cold?_

He can. Sherlock can feel his whole body shutting down; finally giving up on him. There's the faint pull of his muscles relaxing, a twinge as his nervous system begins to disintegrate. His eyes roll back into his head. He’s slipping away.

“John...”

He’s not sure if the words actually leave his lips, if they’ll even reach the real world. He’s not sure he really cares anymore…

“Moriarty…”

The consulting criminal grins when he hears his name. His teeth glow a bright white in the dark.

“He’s won.”

And with that the lights finally go out. His world stops rotating. A blanket of total darkness falls across everything and anything he ever once knew. Moriarty disappears. Everything feels cold, empty. There’s nothing but silence, a dead and unmoving peace.

This is it.

Absolute stillness.

His heart stops beating.

“I love you.”

Three words drip down steadily from somewhere above. Like dust settling on books or delicate drops of rain tapping the floor. They travel steadily through the darkness, like a record stuck on repeat. They’re coming from a desperate voice, a familiar voice. Surely it can’t be…?

"Please Sherlock."

Small droplets of light start to appear in the murkiness. Pulses of electricity spark from somewhere deep in the corner of his mind. Surely this is an illusion. That’s not  _his_ voice is it? That’s not…

“Wake up. This can’t be it. I love you.”

But it is. It  _is_.

_It’s John._

Blaring noise starts up again in his brain, like the whirling of an old machine. The droplets of light start to get bigger; expand and bubble, begin to contract the darkness. His finger twitches once at his side.

It’s John.  _His_ John Watson. Saying that he loves him.

His heart gives a thump from deep inside his chest. Once, twice. Soon warm blood starts to flow through his veins. It’s all happening so fast. Bit by bit the dark room is getting smaller, the light is expanding; growing more and more by the second. He begins to hear things, feel things. There’s someone touching his face, someone’s forehead pressed against his. It’s not Moriarty, not this time. It’s someone  _real_.

“I love you.”

Sherlock’s whole body starts to shake as he comes alive with a sudden blur of motion and sensation. His skin burns hot not cold. He suddenly becomes aware of the sweat pouring past his temples.

He’s alive. He’s fighting back. Moriarty is nowhere to be seen.

“Please Sherlock. Wake up.”

Sherlock will. He’s going to fight back, going to see this one through. His entire system is being fuelled by John’s words, by a feeling he’s never truly felt before.

“This can’t be it. I love you.”

He won’t let them down.

_He won’t._

 

***

 

 

Mycroft’s breath is coming out in small, short gasps. He’s done crying. Done gagging. He just sits, with his fingers clawing into the flesh at his thighs, and watches.

John is now hunched over his motionless brother, his whole body trembling. He’s crying into Sherlock’s hair, stroking his face. Sherlock is still  _not_ moving.

“Mycroft he’s…he’s gone.”

The elder Holmes drops his head into his hands and begins to rock slowly; forwards and backwards. His whole body tingles and tenses, prickling with a storm of fiery emotions.

He lets out one short guttural howl.  _No_.

In the corner of his vision he can see John kissing his little brother again, his lips forming a perfect oval against Sherlock’s own. It’s absolutely devastating to watch, heart-breaking in so many different ways. They would have been so perfect together, he’s all Sherlock ever wanted…

He waits for his vision to black out completely; for the vomit to come. It’s as if someone is grinding and kneading his heart with their fists. How can he ever - there’s nothing left for him now. He’s...failed. What will he tell their parents? How can he face them?

How will anything-

“Mycroft. Mycroft wait...I think he just moved, he-”

“What?” Mycroft manages to lift his head slowly. “How?”

“He twitched, and his eyes...wait,” John starts fumbling frantically at Sherlock’s neck. “Hang on…”

Mycroft’s vision wavers. Like he's on a tight-rope. So  _very_ close to the edge.

“Yes!” John breathes, “Yes I can feel a pulse!”

Mycroft almost does faint then, relief hitting him with the impact of an earthquake or a tidal wave; the feeling flushing through every single cell of his body. The fists squeezing his heart let go. His lungs fill with cool, fresh air.

“Are you sure?” he gasps.

“Yes, yes! I-”

“How can that be possible?”

“I don’t know!” John is choking on his own sobs, still never taking his hands from Sherlock’s face. “I don’t understand-”

At that very moment the sound of heavy footsteps fills the room as the paramedics arrive, thundering up the stairs. They rush over, their green uniforms standing out oddly in the dark. There’s at least four of them carrying various different equipment. One holds a defibrillator and an oxygen mask, the other three lifting a stretcher. Mycroft shines his torch.

“Stand clear please.”

“Alive…” John mumbles, his eyes glazed over as if in a daze. “He’s alive.”

“Move out of the way please sir.”

Mycroft tugs at John’s shoulders and they sit back as a man with mousy brown hair and sharp blue eyes takes over. He checks Sherlock’s pulse before lifting the detective’s head and sliding an oxygen mask over his mouth, causing his hair to get caught at the sides. A steady stream of warm breath appears on the inside of the plastic.

 _He’s breathing_. Mycroft marvels.  _He’s alive._

The two of them move back further as the paramedics drop to Sherlock’s side and position him on the stretcher. They’re all talking, communicating. So quickly; their deep voices echoing like rocks sinking to the bottom of a deep pool. Within minutes they’re carrying Sherlock out of the room.

John and Mycroft follow quickly, taking the steps two at a time. The flashing blue lights of the ambulance blind them as soon as they step outside. The cold wind stings their cheeks.

“Are you both coming to the hospital?” The man with the blue eyes looks up from where he’s lifting Sherlock into the back of the ambulance.

Mycroft and John step forward, they answer in unison.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you ever want it?  
> Did you want bad?  
> Oh, my  
> It tears me apart  
> Did you ever fight it?  
> All of the pain, so much power  
> Running through my veins  
> Bleeding, I'm bleeding  
> My cold little heart  
> Oh I, I can't stand myself
> 
> And I know  
> In my heart, in this cold heart  
> I can live or I can die  
> I believe if I just try  
> You believe in you and I  
> In you and I  
> In you and I  
> In you and I
> 
> Did you ever notice  
> I've been ashamed  
> All my life  
> I've been playing games  
> We can try to hide it  
> It's all the same  
> I've been losing you  
> One day at a time  
> Bleeding, I'm bleeding  
> My cold little heart  
> Oh I, I can't stand myself
> 
> And I know  
> In my heart, in this cold heart  
> I can live or I can die  
> I believe if I just try  
> You believe in you and I  
> In my heart, in this cold heart  
> I can live or I can die  
> I believe if I just try  
> You believe in you and I  
> In you and I  
> In you and I  
> In you and I
> 
> Maybe this time I can be strong  
> But since I know who I am  
> I'm probably wrong  
> Maybe this time I can go far  
> But thinking about where I've been  
> Ain't helping me start
> 
> (Cold little heart - Michael Kiwanuka - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FngDSOuCNAA - https://open.spotify.com/track/5MqtUWIKlww4ZMJartTD3q)


	4. Water rising from the floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up in hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I know it's only been a few days since I last updated but I really am rushing to get this done before TFP airs. And typically, my computer decided to crash and I lost everything. So I had to rewrite this chapter. I'm so anxious that my writing standard has slipped and it's not going to be good enough anymore, but hopefully that's not the case. Anyway, enjoy!

John sits in the corner of the ambulance with his knees squashed against the wall and fiddles anxiously with his thumbs. He still feels short of breath. The experience is all too familiar - it’s not for the first time he’s had to sit in the back of an ambulance and rush with Sherlock to hospital, completely out of his mind with worry.

He wonders if it'll be the last.

The ambulance rattles and bounces as it rushes along the empty streets of South London. The wail of the sirens rings repeatedly in his ears. It’s taking too long. Sherlock’s not got time to lose - and he's got too much time to think. He lets his head fall back against the thin white wall and closes his eyes.

_Mary._

Dread and shame and guilt curdle like ingredients for a terminal illness in his stomach. He can't believe he's gone and done it. Cheated. Actually kissed someone else, and it was Sherlock bloody Holmes for that matter. He told himself he'd try and forget about it. Banish those feelings back to the destructive pit they came from, and now...

He's only a few months in and he’s broken his wedding vows - the whole thing makes him feel sick. Questions swirl endlessly in his head, like water twisting down a plughole. What will happen now? Who will look after Rosie? How will Sherlock react to this? Mary? Surely there’s no way back to the way things were?

He opens his eyes and squints as the glare of the bright white ambulance light fills his vision.  _Stop._ He tells himself. He can’t worry about all that now. There’s no point, it's not going to make the current situation any better. He’s just got to focus on seeing Sherlock through this.

John’s eyes drift to Mycroft, who is sitting on a small blue chair on the other side of the bed, directly next to Sherlock’s side. In the cold bright light, he looks like an entirely different man. Someone John’s never seen before, and doubts he will ever see again. The elder Holmes looks pale, decrepit. Hunched over Sherlock's side with his hand placed lightly over his brother's fingers. His tired eyes never stray from Sherlock's face, not even for a second. John scans him up and down. His suit looks ragged and dirty. His shirt is rumpled, his top button is undone, and he tugs repeatedly with his fingers to loosen it.

John blinks. He looks like a man who has just been to hell and back. In fact, he expects they  _both_ do.

Sherlock has stopped murmuring, stopped shaking. His whole body now still expect for the moisture that fills the oxygen mask and the bleep the machine makes as it picks up his pulse. The blue-eyed paramedic stands in the other corner trying not to look at them. But when he does, his eyes are filled with something that makes John's stomach curl. Genuine sorrow. Pity.

John looks away and tries to keep his eyes fixed on the blank white wall opposite him.

Even if Sherlock definitely does pull through, how will they ever recover from this?

 

***

 

Sherlock wakes very slowly, very gradually. All the wires in his brain steadily fusing together. It takes a while for him to realise where exactly he is.  

 _Hospital._  He winces.  _Of course._

The second thing he notices is how heavy his limbs feel, how much his vision blurs as he peels open his eyes. Everything hurts. Every single muscle and bone. His hands feel cold and clammy. His toes hardly move when he flexes them. He wants to groan, but when he tries, no sound escapes from his mouth.

“Awake already, are we?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes for a long moment, making the white slabs of the hospital ceiling disappear before him. He wants nothing more than to shrink away into the sheets. To be left alone to drown in a pool of his own despair. For a moment it crosses his mind to run, to pull these stupid wires out and hide, somewhere far away from everyone. But the idea gets dismissed as soon as it comes. It’s clear he simply doesn’t have the energy to move, neither the mental or physical strength. It seems he can barely lift a finger.

“No.”

“Ooh, your voice doesn’t sound too good.” A nurse with short black hair and a faded blue uniform is moving towards him, her words soft and gentle. Her perfume reminds him faintly of Molly. “You haven't been asleep very long.”

Sherlock opens his eyes. “Haven't I…how amusing..." The nurse is still moving towards him, Sherlock's whole body suddenly seizes with panic. "Wait no!”

The nurse stops in her tracks, her hands frozen in the air.

“No no no." Sherlock croaks. "What are you doing?” 

“Adjusting your tubes, I was going to move them so you can sit up and see-”

“No, please-” Sherlock winces as he tries to lift a hand from the sheets. “Please don’t. In fact if you could just, go away that would be great. I don’t want to see anyone, anyone at all. Can you sort of…” He trails off, muttering the words softly under his breath. “Just leave me here to die, would you?.”

The nurse drops her hands and steps back. Sherlock wishes he could read her face but he can’t turn his head far enough. The tone of her voice says all he needs to know anyway.

“Mr Holmes, it’s ok to be upset. You’ve had a very close-”

“Shh.” Sherlock wets his dry lips with his tongue. “Please. Spare me the lecture. I know what I’ve done.” He pauses and indicates to the door with his eyes. “Who’s out there?”

“Your brother, and your friend.”

_Friend._

A million memories from the night before come flashing back to him all at once. He blinks rapidly. 

“John Watson?”

The nurse nods her head, causing a single strand of hair to fall in her eyes. She turns sharply in the direction of the door.

“No!” Dread instantly fills every single pore of Sherlock’s body once again, rises through him like a flood. “Don’t go out there. Don’t tell them I’m awake. Just say I’m dead, or in a coma or something. Just get them to leave. Anything.”

The nurse steps slowly into his vision and folds her lips into a straight line. Her gaze grows softer. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Well, you could, actually." Sherlock quips, "If you think about it. And  _please_  don’t pity me. It’s annoying.”

The woman straightens out the hem of her skirt and brushes the hair from her face, the slightest flush starting to rise on her cheeks. “Right. I’m going now to tell them that you’ve made it and that you’re talking.”

“But-”

The nurse steps forward, determination sparking brightly in her eyes. “Now you just listen to me Mr Holmes, I’ve seen a lot of distraught people in my time, but none as bad as those two out there. They have a right to know, ok? I’ll tell them to give you ten minutes.”

“No!” Sherlock begs, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - wait!”

But the nurse is already reaching for the door handle, the light casting a shadow across her face as she steps outside into the corridor and shuts the door promptly behind her, leaving Sherlock alone in the room.

So _very_ , alone.

 

 

***

 

 

Mycroft slumps backwards in the hospital chair, his eyes falling over the poster opposite him for what must be the 100th time.

_Do you have prostate problems? Don’t let them go unnoticed, call..._

Mycroft reads the words sarcastically in his head before mashing his face into his palm and sighing wearily.

Prostate problems? Yeah, right. Sherlock is a whole new kind of pain in the arse.  

People come and go around him, like players in a game or characters from some naff television drama. It's odd setting, one he's not used to. There is all sorts here, people who look tired, old, young, ecstatic, bereaved. There's children, families. Lone women with sad smiles. He finds he doesn't know how to act, how to _be_ , not really. Here he's surrounded by people dealing with real lives. Real everyday emergencies, not the kind of bizarre undercover work he's does.

Sometimes it's easy to forget there's a living breathing world existing outside his own. Outside the one he controls. He suddenly feels rather out of place.

Neither Greg, Molly, Mary or anyone else has made an appearance in the nearly 10 hours they've been here, likely because Mycroft has refused to reveal where they are. He has decided, after some careful consideration, that concealing the details of their situation is best for the time being... considering. He can’t control it forever of course - certainly, Mary will be the first to trace them. But for now, it's best to hold them off. As it stands, a domestic drama in the middle of a public hospital is the last thing anyone needs. 

“Mr Holmes?”

Mycroft jerks upwards in his chair. Almost by default, he elbows the slumbering body of John beside him. “Yes?!”

“He’s awake.”

“Oh god."

Mycroft never knew he could feel relief so pure, an emotion so strongly. At any other time the notion would be alarming, but for once he didn’t care.

“Oh thank god. John, John, he’s-”

“Hmm?”

“He’s woken up.”

“Oh...Jesus.” John rubs his eyes and blinks several times before sitting up. “Is he talking?”

“Yes. But he’s…” The nurse trails off and her eyes suddenly fixate on the floor. “Well, um, maybe it would be best if you went in one at a time.”

“Really?”

Mycroft and John both turn to each other, but John is the first to dip his head.

“You can go first,” He nods.

“Sure?”

“Yeah I’ll...oh I don’t know...” Mycroft watches as John clicks open his phone. He doesn’t mean to see the screen but he does.

_37 missed calls. Mary._

“...I’ll just wait here and entertain myself. It seems certain he'll pull through now. That’s all that matters.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies anxiously. “Of course. I’ll err...try not to be too long because obviously you know, you - you two need to-”

He cuts himself off as John looks away and gulps silently.

“Anyway...” He shakes his head and turns to the nurse. “Could you...give us a minute please, in there?”

“Umm…" The nurse crinkles her nose. "Actually I’m afraid I really should be present.”

Mycroft dips his head and asks again with his eyes. Softly. Genuinely.

_Please._

After a moment the nurse hesitantly steps aside, and Mycroft feels his fingers wrap around the door handle. He throws John one final anxious look.

 _Control yourself,_ he whispers in the seconds before he opens the door.  _Don’t lose it._

 

 

* * *

 

 

The first moment their eyes meet could tear whole worlds apart.

Mycroft says nothing, does nothing, except for pull the door closed silently behind him and cross slowly to the other side of the room to where a small green chair is waiting. He sinks into it heavily. Sits quietly for a moment before crossing his legs and threading his fingers together in front of him.

Whole minutes pass. Whole seconds that feel like years, decades. It takes a _very_ long time for Sherlock to meet his gaze. But when he does-

Silence.

Pure and cold. The air seems to grow heavy and dense around them, as if there was water rising from the floor. A million words are flicker past in just one look. Years of devastation. Paragraphs that have been left unspoken, hundreds of texts unanswered, phone calls ignored. So much _hurt_. Pain. Anger. All in one moment.

Sherlock is the first to look away.

Mycroft pretends to look at his nails but notices his fingers are trembling in front of him. His thoughts trail back to the dark roots of their childhood. To that _day_ , and all that came afterwards. So many arguments. So _much_ mutual resentment. It could fill books or entire museum galleries. All of it feels just simply impossible to address. The air conditioning hums faintly above them. Neither of them actually know where to start.

“Why?” Mycroft finally murmurs.

Sherlock’s voice comes out low and dangerous, like a growl of an injured wolf. His eyes flicker to the door, to the corridor. “You know why.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His fingers tighten around each other on his lap. He wants to say, _but what about me?_  But doesn’t. There’s no need anyway, Sherlock inferred it.

Another long and bitter silence blankets the room. The clock ticks steadily above them. Mycroft wonders if perhaps he’s wasting his time. 

“Sorry.” Sherlock finally whispers.

Mycroft leans forwards and collapses his head in his hands. He breathes out slowly.

“Just…” He has to pause for several seconds to stop his voice from wavering. “Just tell me one thing Sherlock, and _don’t_ lie.” He looks up, his eyes tired and wary. “Did you deliberately do it - take that much. Did you intentionally mean to-”

“What? Kill myself?”

Mycroft shivers uncomfortably, as if someone was pouring cold water down his back. His throat feels drier than sandpaper.

“No.” Sherlock responds lowly after a moment. “No I did not. I...miss calculated. I thought my body could handle an extra five percent if I just...”

Mycroft looks away and shakes his head ever so slightly. His nails dig sharply into his palm, hard enough to leave bruises. “No one can handle that Sherlock.” He hisses through gritted teeth. “Not even you.”

The atmosphere shifts. The water is starting to reach their knees, always ascending…

Sherlock’s lower lip sticks out. His cheeks start to flush a pale red. His voice changes in an instant. “Oh for god sake I’ve already told you I’m sorry. I wrote that bloody list for you didn’t I?!”

Mycroft almost rises from his chair, anger jolting through his body like an electric shock. “And what?" He snaps. "Is that supposed to get you brownie points?”

Sherlock flinches. Mycroft’s voice cuts through him, sharp as a razor. It strikes right at the core, strong enough to rip through anything, through ice.

_Direct hit._

Mycroft watches as Sherlock tilts his head back and tries to focus on the ceiling, his fingers curling ever so slightly at his sides. He starts to blink rapidly. It actually takes Mycroft a second to realise he’s trying to stop himself from crying.

“Sherlock…”

A single tear slips from the corner of his brother’s eye. His sniffs silently.

Mycroft grimaces. It feels like the air is vaporising around him. He forces himself to unclench his fists and leans forward, tries _hard_ to make his voice soft, like he used to when they were children. “Sherlock, look...don’t get upset I didn’t…”

Sherlock tries to turn his head away but the act only causes him to wince in pain.

“I didn’t mean it I’m sorry.” Mycroft reaches out to touch Sherlock’s hand but then decides against it. “Listen, about all of this. I’m…really sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock manages to choke.

“That was insensitive of me.” Mycroft continues. “I’m...I’m not angry at you.”

“You are.”

Mycroft takes a small breath. “No, I just...I thought I’d lost you for back there- last night. John and I both did. And you cannot imagine…”

Sherlock narrows his eyes ever so slightly. Confusion flickers across his face.

“...what that felt like. But you pulled through, and I suppose that’s all that matters now. I just need to tell you that I’m sorry. Because there was a second there when I thought I wouldn’t get a chance to say it. ”

Sherlock pauses for a moment. His eyes dart from side to side. “For what?”

“For…everything. I know I have never been the best with…” He has physically to force the word from his mouth. “Emotions...and such but, I’ve been sat out there for an insufferable amount of time and I've realised I’ve not been there for you, not really. Not in the way you needed. You’re clearly in a bad place and you have been for months and I’ve...I’ve let you down.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock eventually mumbles. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

The elder Holmes straightens up. “But you don’t understand, Sherlock. I _always_ will.”

Sherlock says nothing in return, and they sit in silence for a while. But it's not awkward. Not heavy with tension like before. Gradually Mycroft feels the dense air thinning around them, the water draining away at their feet. He starts to breathe cool, clear air.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

Sherlock blinks. “It’s fine, really. The last person I blame for any of this is you. I should be the one apologising.”

It’s like someone is clearing the fog in Mycroft’s brain. Warm sunlight streams in through the blinds at the window.

“Ok.” Mycroft hesitates once more before reaching out and finally placing his hand lightly over Sherlock’s fingers, just for a second. “Ok.” He whispers. “There are worse things that have happened to the world. We’ll work through this.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches up in a smile and finds he can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Alright, don’t start milking it. We’re not in EastEnders or whatever that crap is that everyone watches.”

Mycroft smiles. “I’m surprised you’ve even heard of it.”

"Same goes for you. But in my defence, I have been bored recently.”

Mycroft’s eyes accidently drift to the dark scars and bruises that decorate Sherlock's pale wrist. “Yes, yes you have.” He stands up briskly and straightens out the creases on his trousers before smiling softly. “Anyway, I must go. I think it would be better if we discuss everything properly later, when you feel better. Besides I told John I would be quick…”

He stops himself abruptly when he sees the look of pure shock that has settled over Sherlock’s face.

 _John._ He realises.  _Of course_. How could he have forgotten?

He drops his hand from the door handle.

“Yes um…” Sherlock’s voice tremors slightly as he speaks. “I was going to ask you about that actually…”

“Mm.”

“Just to clarify…” Sherlock’s voice turns as timid as a child’s. Fear and dread and various other things Mycroft can’t label flickering in his eyes.

“That all happened then. I didn’t…hallucinate or imagine…”

Mycroft lowers his voice. “No…”

“So John…actually, what he said...what he _did…”_

 _“_ Yes,” Mycroft responds gravely, his pupils seeming to grow dark from the other side of the room. “That’s why I’m going now. Because you two have a _lot_ to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I find emotional dialogue scenes quite difficult so I hope this was okay and not too cheesy. There were also a few jokes in there too which I hope you found vaguely amusing. Sadly I realise I am not going to be able to update the next and (possibly) final chapter tomorrow before TFP airs, but I'll try and get it done for soon afterwards. As always, thank you for reading. I appreciate your support more than I could ever describe.


	5. A knife in the stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally talk. Properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, sorry for the delay on this chapter. I was stuck in writers' block for so long and I've also been so irritatingly busy. But here it is, a very long angsty chapter, and god I hope you like it. Enjoy!

_What did Mycroft want then?_

_When will you be back?_

_Is Sherlock ok?_

_John???_

_Stay safe please._

_Rosie misses you._

_I miss you._

_John?_

_Answer my calls?_

_Where an earth are you??_

_One more hour and I call Mycroft._

_He isn’t answering either. Seriously, are you both ok??_

_Please be careful._

_I love you._

_I’ve given Rosie to Mrs Hudson. I’m coming to find you._

John’s heart sinks lower and lower with every text he receives; every phone call he watches ring out silently in front of him. He feels physically sick, sure his stomach is about to chuck up its contents at any moment.

How will he ever explain any of this?

How can he possibly expect her to understand?

The mostly bare white walls of the hospital corridor give him nothing to look at, offer him no distraction. He’s already memorised the two posters that are there, followed every single chain of thought that can possibly be squeezed from them. _Anything_ to try and distract himself.

It doesn’t help.

They’re at Croydon University Hospital, and he now recognises all the sounds that surround him, all the staff, as if he’s been seated here his whole life. The repetitive ringing of the phone falls dull to his ears. The quiet chatter of the nurses; the whoosh of the trolleys as they wheel past, the beep of the machines; it all fuzzes like background noise. So _painfully_ insignificant. It makes the thoughts in his head seem unbearably loud.

He thinks about calling Mary, of course he does. He even attempts to plan out what he would say. How he would start…

But his phone is running out of battery, and just looking at it makes him feel extremely sick.

_Rosie misses you._

_I miss you._

_John?_

He can’t shake Mary’s gentle voice from his head, and he can’t _stand_ listening to it. The only other alternative is talking to Mycroft - someone he has absolutely no idea how to start a conversation with.

Perhaps he’ll spend the rest of his life here. Trapped in this narrow corridor, waiting to see if the one person he loves most will wake up.

Time bends and fluctuates around him, some minutes passing like seconds, some like years, but the moment he does finally does fall into some kind of distorted sleep, Mycroft’s elbow starts jabbing him sharply in the ribs.

“John, John he’s-”

“Hmm?” John groans softly as his dream liquidates in front of him. He was lying on the soft brown sofa at Baker Street, the leather cool against his skin, his fingers curled into Sherlock’s hair…

“He’s woken up.”

“Oh… Jesus.”

Mycroft’s words drag him back to reality in an instant, like a cold slap in the face. A million insecurities flood back to the hollow pit in his stomach. His chest contracts with nerves. He sits up wearily.

“Is he talking?”

He listens attentively as the nurse suggests they should see Sherlock one at a time, lets Mycroft go first, and gulps nervously when the elder holmes promises not to be too long. Soon he’s watching Mycroft take one last breath and step through the door.

It clicks quietly behind him.

John hears nothing.

Not even the low murmur of Sherlock's voice. There’s no greeting. No acknowledgement. The nurse smiles sadly before walking away.

John groans and drops his head back against the wall. Suddenly, he feels quite close to tears.

_Please Sherlock. This can’t be it. I love you._

That’s what he said. Three sentences. Nine words. And within them, nearly seven years of repressed feelings, subtle looks; countless unfinished sentences and missed opportunities. All aired out in the open like a devastating storm, an impenetrable mist that might never clear.

He’s never regretted saying anything more.

Time slows further. Each minute starts to last longer, dragging past like a death sentence; a form of torture. He rakes a shaky hand through his hair and tries to focus on taking deep heavy breaths. Should he plan out what to say?

What if Sherlock doesn’t remember, or refuses to admit that he does? What do they do then? Pretend it never happened?

He hears a noise. A low and furious vibration of sound. Someone’s raised their voice.

_Oh god._

A trembling starts up in his arms, throbs violently in his system. He starts to wonder if he should leave, if he should just take off down this horrible corridor and find the exit. He could ditch his phone - throw it in a bin or a river - and find somewhere to hide for a few days, Mike’s or... someone else’s. He could escape to the darkness of the woods, or roll the dice on a plane ticket. Just for a few days. Anywhere would be better than here. Sherlock probably doesn’t even want to see him. It’s not like they’ve been speaking much recently anyway. Things were already falling apart...destined to break...

_No._

A moral conscience plucks up from somewhere deep within him. Puts the record straight. He can’t run away. Not now. Deep down he knows he really _does_ have to find the courage to face this.

_Sherlock...what I said...I…_

The door to the room suddenly creakes open, and an exhausted but slightly more relaxed Mycroft appears. John notices his top button is done back up, and he’s holding his head a little higher.

“You can go in now he’s...slightly better.” Mycroft moves forward and purses his lips, seemingly unsure of what to say. “He’s in a lot of pain though so...be careful.”

John stands, having to steady himself on the chair to stop his legs from wavering beneath him. He promises Mycroft with his eyes and moves towards the door.

“And John,”

Mycroft steps in his path, his voice turning softer, his words solemn.

“I'll go outside and make some calls. Try and divert Mary. It should give you a bit longer.”

John exhales softly through his nose and dips his head. “Thank you.” He whispers. “I appreciate that.”

And with that, he turns, grips the handle, and pushes through the door.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s fingers tremble at his sides. His lips quiver. The bedsheets feel cold, clammy, and he has to blink constantly to stop his eyes from filling with tears.

John - _his_ John - the only person he’s ever loved, is about to enter the room. Any. Second. Now.

Will he be furious? Distraught? Overwhelmingly relieved? Did he actually mean what he said?

Sherlock’s mind whirs. _John,_  the one person he never normally fails to predict. But now?

He has absolutely no idea.

The soft sound of Mycroft voice drifts in from outside. Faint shadows of feet appear outside the door. It’s all happening so quickly, there’s no time to plan, there’s movement, and then-

_Click._

Every fibre of Sherlock’s being makes him want to look away. For the shame is so overpowering, the embarrassment so strong, that it’s nearly impossible not to turn his head, to shut his eyes and retreat to the darkest and most private corners of his mind palace - to hide.

It takes all his willpower not to. Every ounce of it.

But he doesn't. Because a larger part of him is unable to bear it a second longer. He’s _got_ to see John’s reaction, he-

The door swings open.

 _Oh_.

John appears, walking slowly, cautiously, staring hard at the floor. Watching the movements of his shaking hands as he lets go of the handle and pushes the door closed behind him. The first thing Sherlock spots is the sweaty palm prints he leaves on the metal. The faded creases of his jeans, his shirt. His nails which are unusually are bitten down to the skin. And when Sherlock’s eyes finally drift up to his face…

It’s like a knife in the stomach.

Their eyes meet. John’s pupils are dark and wide, but empty. His gaze travels over Sherlock’s fragile body, over every single detail of his face. His expression grows softer, sadder. And suddenly Sherlock notices the hollow bags under his eyes, the faded creases now lining his temples. He sees John’s skin is greasy, and his hair, that's normally so well kept, is now dishevelled and messy, evidence that he’s dragged his fingers through it many times.

He looks bitterly disappointed, upset, relieved, heartbroken, anxious. All at once. A million emotions flicker through his eyes, start to conflict against each other, resist. It’s strokes of everything anyone’s ever felt, all merging together like paint. It's colour impossible to chart, a mental state unable to be labelled. Overall, he just looks _broken._

John shuts his eyes and shoves his head into his hands, sagging back towards the wall; collapsing against it for support. Already he seems so defeated, so helpless.

Sherlock’s never seen him this way before.

The smallest whimper escapes from the army doctor's lips. He brings his fist to his mouth and bites down hard, tries to shield his eyes with his elbow. He’s _crying_.   

And then it all hits him, like a bullet. Sherlock feels as if he’s just fallen off a cliff, down a bottomless pit; an abyss. Guilt isn’t the right word. Devastation swallows him whole, like a liquid black and sticky. It poisons his insides. He feels like he’s going to choke on it.

How could he do this? To the man he loves?

Tears start to slide from the corner of his eyes too. He blinks. His breath rapidly becoming hard to steady. The bleep of the machine sounds his heart rate getting faster.

_Bleep. Bleep. Bleep._

John rubs his eyes and tries to straighten himself up before looking away.

Seconds pass. Minutes. John still doesn’t move, clutching at the door handle for support. He doesn’t go to sit down.

Suddenly Sherlock can’t bear the silence any longer.

“Sorry.” He blurts out, his voice wobbling and breaking like a childs. “I’m so sorry.”

John takes another deep breath, still looking away; fighting the tears brimming in his eyes.

“I don’t expect you to be able to forgive me. It’s f-fine if you don’t. In fact, you can just go-”

Sherlock’s voice cracks. His words turn into small sobs. He gasps and tries to stifle them, slowly lifting a hand to cover his face.

“Sherlock…”

John’s voice comes out hoarse and pained. He steps forward carefully, leaving the support of the wall.

“I’m...I’m not going anywhere.” He mumbles. “That’s the problem.”

Sherlock gulps. “What?”

John strains his neck, as if finding the right words was causing him pain. “I’m not leaving...what I said…”

“Last night?”

John takes a tiny step closer and bites his lip. “Yes. When I thought you were...dead, or dying, I don’t know…I would never normally...”

Sherlock suddenly becomes sharp, desperate. He sits up, grasping the sheets. “Did you mean it?”

The atmosphere shifts. John’s sombre expression deepens. He tilts his chin. “You don't think I meant it?”

“Well I-”

“Of course I meant it, Sherlock.” John interrupts, his fists clenching tightly at his sides. “I meant every word ok? Every. Damn. Word.”

Sherlock inhales sharply as the entirety of the last seven years flash before him in an instant. The way John licked his lips at Angelo's. His plea on the tarmac at Barts, the crack of his voice. The fire in his eyes in the restaurant when he realised Sherlock wasn’t dead, the pure devastation. The way they held each other's gaze when they found out Mary was pregnant - when things could never be the same. The whole idea wasn’t just a ludicrous fantasy he made up, a ridiculous dream. John had actually felt something for him all these years, all this time.

He was _right._

“Oh…”

“I know I should have told you.” John continues through gritted teeth, “Before the fall, before Moriarty, before any of that. But I always presumed you weren’t interested and when I finally realised you were...it was too late.”

“Mary....” Sherlock whispers, his eyes darting, calculating. Still replaying everything over in his head, the fall from Barts, his return. John’s _face_.

“I thought you were never coming back, Sherlock. That’s why I found her. Because I _needed_ someone then, or I would have...”

Sherlock shuts his eyes. He is still falling down the hole, failing to get a grip on the slimy guilt-ridden walls. This is all his fault…

“But she’s not you,” John continues after a moment. “That’s the problem, alright? There I finally said it. A large part of me _does_ love her, and our life together. Truly. But she’s _not_ you.”

Sherlock holds his breath. He blinks.

“And I…”

Time slows down, switches to slow motion. John shuffles on his feet and clenches his jaw, as if he was having to physically squeeze the words from his throat. A single tear drips from his cheek. “I love _you_.”

The room falls silent. John takes several deep breaths. More seconds pass. He looks up, eagerly awaiting Sherlock’s reply.

But Sherlock is just blank, stunned to the core. His face is awash with confusion, with hundreds of doubts. His brain flashes with images of everything he's ever known, of his childhood, of his parents, of all the people who have laughed at him and rejected him. He's never had anyone love him back, not like this, not like...

“I…” He struggles with his words. “I…”

John moves forwards, slowly, cautiously, acting on instinct. He takes a steady step, distressed by Sherlock's reaction, by the tears trailing down his cheeks. He stops moving as he reaches Sherlock’s side.

But Sherlock hardly notices, a million things shooting through his mind. All the ways John has ever looked at him, all the time's his pupils dilated. His jealously at Irene’s texts. He was _right._  “I…”

His world tilts and wavers, the fringes of his vision start to blur, all signs of a panic attack. How can this be real? Is he hallucinating? Is John actually saying this? Doing this? After all this time?

John holds his breath and starts to lean forwards.

How can Sherlock possibly reply, _prove_  to John that he means it. There’s just so much he needs to convey, so many details and feelings. So much he has no idea how to put into words.  

He’s snapped from his trance by the touch of a gentle hand on his cheek. _John’s_ hand. Caressing his skin, running a thumb over his lips. Softly, gently, ready to retreat at any moment. Sherlock slowly follows the movement, looks up, and  _finally_ meets John’s eyes.

“I love you too.” He stammers before he can stop himself. “I _always_ have.”

And there it is. All John's ever wanted to know. He dips down suddenly and closes the gap between them, pressing his soft rosy lips gently against Sherlock's own, giving himself no time to hesitate.

And Sherlock _flies_ then. For the act is so gentle, so forgiving. So different from anything he's ever experienced. His lips move automatically as instinct takes over, and he pushes back against John's touch. Flicks out his tongue.

It's like all the galaxies aligning. Everything slotting into place. It feels so _right_.  

John slides his fingers into Sherlock's hair as his brain floods with chemicals, warm and mellow. It's like a gentle breeze on a summers day, soft laughter and music, all tainted yellow with happiness. Sherlock whimpers softly beneath him. Savouring every moment. Every second.

John pulls back, his eyes wide and teary. He hesitates just inches from Sherlock's lips, lets their noses brush softly together.

Sherlock closes his eyes again, relishing in the pure sensation. Because he doesn't know how long he will have this, this beautiful man, choosing _him_. Him out of every other single person in the world. It's everything he's ever wanted. 

Another one of John’s tears drips onto Sherlock’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers after a moment, moving his cheek and willing John to kiss him again, but not being bold enough to initiate it. "I'm sorry for everything." 

John leans in and kisses him once more, capturing his lips and holding them for another long moment before pulling softly on the detective’s lower one with his teeth. 

The feeling is indescribable. Ecstasy. 

“I'm sorry too, Sherlock.” He murmurs as his fingers curl into the other man's hair, their foreheads resting gently against each other. "I'm sorry too." 

 

 

***

 

 

Mary glides down the long pale corridors, through the hall, past the multiple smart white doors. She smiles coyly to herself, her blonde hair bobbing in time with her steps, her black jacket trailing out behind her. Flowing with her momentum.

She feels calm, focused. On track.

Adrenaline hums quietly in her brain as she strides forwards. It’s the thrill of the chase. The blood pumping through her veins. She hasn't been out like this in _ages,_ and god she’s missed it.

She drifts around another corner, past the reception of A&E. There's doctors in long white coats, staff with clipboards.

No one steps in her way.

No one asks who she is.

She pushes through another set of double doors and lets them bang loudly behind her. It feels good.

The signs indicate clearly where she has to go. She passes room 187, 188, and calculates she needs to take two more left turns and climb up a flight of stairs.

Then she’ll be there.

Her footsteps clatter loudly on the floor, echo off the walls. She hopes it's a murder case, an arrest. Or maybe they’re waiting to get information from a suspect. She can't _wait_ to be part of the action, part of the pursuit. She’s a little concerned about John’s lack of replies, because it's usual but...there's probably a reasonable explanation. She just hasn't figured out what it is yet.

She passes through another door and spots the room she’s looking for. 210. It's located in a narrow corridor, littered with a few worn chairs. There's a nurse with mousy brown hair standing outside the door.

“Woah excuse me miss," She says suddenly when she realises where Mary is heading, "But you can't-”

“Sorry,” Mary quips, quirking an eyebrow and moving swiftly past her, “But I can, official business and all that.”

“Wait-”

But Mary is already gripping the handle, using her shoulder to barge the door open and-

“Excuse me but what the _hell_ do you think you're doing?”

Mary stops dead in her tracks. Her excitement shatters like a wall of glass around her. The door bangs shut.

A frail woman with baggy eyes and greying hair looks up from across the room. She’s wearing a faded blue dress that’s one size too big for her, and looks... fragile. Distressed. She’s leant over the hospital bed in the center of the room, holding the hand on someone much smaller, younger. Someone in a patterned blue hospital gown.

A _child_.

It's a mother and her critically ill daughter. Crying. Saying goodbye. Sherlock and John are nowhere to be seen.

“Mummy? Who is this woman?”

The nurse bursts in from behind and grabs Mary’s shoulder sternly, starting to pull. Mary doesn’t resist.“I told you, you couldn't be in here,” She hisses, “This is a private room. You need to be on the list, a relative or…”

The woman’s voice fades into the background as Mary lets herself be dragged back outside to the narrow corridor.

_What???_

The white walls now seem to slope inwards; crushing her. Her brain swirls with confusion, with questions. Her eyes drift to the sign on the door. 210.

_North wing. 210. St Thomas’ Hospital. John is fine. M_

Mary recites Mycroft's text message in her head. Rearranging the words and letters before her in her mind. Is it a code? Did she get it wrong?

The nurse lets go of her shoulder and tells her to go and find reception, but Mary pays no attention. She presses herself back against the wall, her brain still whirling, eyes darting.

_Think._

210, North Wing, St Thomas' Hospital, London. That is exactly where she is. There’s absolutely no mistaking it.

Why would Mycroft be wrong?

Would he lie? Why?

The nurse turns away.

“Wait!”

Mary darts forward, the curls of her blonde hair falling across her flushed cheeks.  

“Has Sherlock Holmes been here?”

The nurse furrows her eyebrows. “Sherlock... Holmes?”

“Yes, or John Watson, or someone called Mycroft?”

“Mr Holmes…” The nurse looks blank, still annoyed. “As in the detective…?”

Mary rolls her eyes and turns sharply on her heels before heading back down the corridor, the stairs, back the way she came; taking the steps two at a time.

She pulls out her phone and double checks the information, all correct.

Fear starts to pulse in her nervous system. Her cool mood replaced in an instant. Something is wrong. _Very_ wrong.

This is no mistake, Mycroft doesn’t make mistakes, so why has he sent her false information, deliberately thrown her off the scent. What's going on?

_?_

She sends him back a simple question mark and waits 30 seconds. No response.

She makes her way back through the hospital; using her phone to try to hack into the MI6 database and track Mycroft’s movements - or Sherlock’s. She gets into the hub of GCHQ and gathers countless CCTV footage and begins to trawl through it. She checks local news reports, twitter, _still_ nothing.

Eventually she decides to use Mycroft’s pass to tap into the NHS’s database for all the London hospitals, to look through the patient entries in the last 24 hours. Maybe they’ll be down as visitors. Maybe-

Her screen flashes red.

_Access denied._

She growls in frustration and types Mycroft’s password again. Another red flash.

_Access denied._

Mary’s hands start shaking. Mycroft's changed his password, or blocked her phone, one of the two. Suddenly it dawns on her.

He doesn't want her to know where they are.

Panic rises and falls in her chest. What if John isn't fine? What if Mycroft is lying about that too? What an earth has happened that she can't be part of?

She reaches the entrance of the hospital and stands outside, trying to hail a taxi. Rain drizzles down from the dark night’s sky onto her face, catches in her hair. There are no stars. Sirens wail in the distance.

For the first time in years she feels truly hurt. Confused and betrayed. Like a kid left out of the games at primary school.

Why hide from her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AA so many feels! So much suspense! I hope it was good and not annoying. I'd love to hear what you think!  
> I would also like to say that I will be doing a Fanfiction based Livestream on my Instagram @221bsherlockfandom_ very soon, possibly tomorrow. So feel free to follow me if you want to keep up with that. I'll basically be talking about this specific work, (as well as my others if you want) and the process of creating, publishing and promoting. And any other questions you may have!  
> As always thanks for reading. It means the world.


	6. The fly in the ointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So this has taken me ages, I'm so sorry. I've been busy and I'm also really worried that this chapter is rubbish and pointless. But anyway, I'll let you be the judge of that.  
> To make up for it I've made a playlist of appropriate soundtrack music for you to listen to as you read - as it's what I write to. Please listen if you can, It's [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/1128856992/playlist/7CzhAXNhbsWbhKPgU26ZVZ) Enjoy!

Mycroft taps with his thumbs, searches with his fingers.

Bit by bit, email by email, he starts to shut Mary out. He sends false signals flying in all directions. Scrambles their location. Changes his password for the MI6 database before blocking her phone.

As he works he tries to ignore the guilt. Because surprisingly it’s there, faintly, silently, vibrating in the background. He feels its presence as if it was someone standing behind him, a spider crawling down his back or a voice whispering in his ear. The slightest knot tightens in his stomach every time he presses send. Because it’s cruel really, keeping her in the dark like this. Hiding. But he can’t forget it’s on John’s orders too. They  _need_ more time.

If there’s anything he’s learnt while working for the British Government it's that some things just have to be done.

He steps outside to make a phone call and adds her to a ‘high security’ list, before sending a few people out to keep tabs on her every movement. After a minute, Anthea informs him she’s left the house and has dropped Rosie off with Mrs Hudson. Mycroft’s lips twitch as he watches some footage of her leaving and taking a cab south towards St Thomas’s Hospital, the blue dot showing her location moving steadily across his screen. Falling innocently into his trap.  

He takes a breath and starts to make his way back inside, back to the narrow corridor outside Sherlock’s hospital room. There’s no sign of John, he must still be in there, even the nurse has given up waiting outside the door.

He hovers awkwardly for a moment before sitting back into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and pulling up his sleeve to check his watch. 4.49am. How long have they got? An hour? Maybe two if they’re lucky?

The work he’s done is excellent. Easily enough to hold off any normal person. But the problem is that Mary _isn’t_ normal. She’s a retired assassin. Smart, intuitive. Far more than she lets on, even now her secret is out. Mycroft has  _always_ known that.

He can divert her all he likes, set as many traps as he pleases.

But she’ll figure it out, of course she will.

The peace won’t last forever.

 

***

 

John wipes his eyes and takes steady breaths in and out. It feels like the ground is about to vanish beneath his feet.

Sherlock is watching him nervously. Still lying back helplessly in the hospital bed. His eyes are misty.

“I don't know what to say.” He whispers.

John grimaces and tugs at the collar of his shirt, his hand shaking. He looks down at his phone once more, at the two texts that have just come through. His vision blurs before him.

_I know you're hiding from me. Why?_

_Please don't ignore me, John. I'm worried._

John reads the text message several times over. Making sure he unpicks anything he might have missed. His phone trembles noticeably in his hand in front of him.

 _“_ She’ll figure it out.” He mutters, trying to divert his eyes to another part of the room. To anything that isn't Sherlock's pale face and teary eyes staring up at him.

“I know _.”_

“So what are we going to do?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

The clock ticks rhythmically above them. Serving as an unwanted reminder that time is always passing. That the inevitable is drawing closer and closer.

John can't bear it.

An uneasy silence draws itself out between them. Like elastic band being pulled to its breaking point. John steps back from the bed and starts to pace, and as he moves away it’s as if the tenderness formed by the moments before is seeping from the room, silently slipping away through the cracks in the walls, escaping through the gap underneath the door. John shifts uneasily from foot to foot. He shuts his eyes.

“Mary doesn’t deserve this…” He manages at last, “ _Me_.”

A lump appears in Sherlock’s throat. Because he's realised what else is filling the air now, taking over. It’s tension. Cold and distant, building up like a wall between them. It’s written all over John’s body language, in the way he's curled his fists, the way he refuses to look at him. The guilt he must be feeling is unbearable. Because he’s _right_ , _s_ ure they’ve had their ups and downs, but Mary doesn’t deserve this - to be cheated on and lied to - not one bit.

Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t gone and overdosed.

The silence breaks only as John clears his throat, and Sherlock finds himself self-consciously biting down on his lip, so hard it actually starts to bleed. He can’t stand this, just  _waiting_ for the moment when John comes clean and tells him that it won’t work. That actually this is all just one big ugly mistake. That  _sorry,_ but he wants things to go back to the way they were. That he’s angry at him for going back on drugs, furious even. That’ll he’ll _never_ be able to forgive him.

But... it doesn't come.

“We have to tell her,” Sherlock whispers eventually, just to break the silence.

“Well of course we have to bloody tell her Sherlock,” John snaps, his tongue quick and sharp. “There's no way we can keep it a secret. Christ, I don't even _want_ to keep this a secret anymore.”

Sherlock blinks, stalling. It takes his brain a moment to actually process the words.

_What?_

“You mean…”

John stops pacing and finally sinks into the tired green armchair beside him. He sighs heavily before dropping his head into his hands.

“You…” Sherlock continues to stammer, his brain backtracking, unusually slow. “You don’t want to keep this a secret?”

“No.” John pauses before shaking his head. “Things weren’t working anyway, between me and Mary I mean.” The words muffle as he speaks into his hands. “Not really, not underneath. Not when everyone was gone and Rosie was in bed and we were... alone.” He shakes his head slightly, looking off warily into the distance, eyes dark. “I don't know. We argue and, I can't stop thinking about you, and-”

Sherlock gulps as John trails off. A part of him wants to reach out and take his hand, to trace delicate circles across his skin. But he’s too far away, and he hardly has the strength.

“Sometimes we work so well,” John is saying, “We do. But other times... I feel like I hardly know her at all.”

Sherlock nods, trying his hardest to seem understanding. This whole experience is so foreign to him, so bizarre. They’ve never once sat down and talked about emotions and relationships, not like this.

“But it doesn't mean I don't…” John narrows his eyebrows, looking away as he searches for the right words. “... _care_ for her because I do.” He mashes his head into his palm. “Oh god I really do.”

Another lengthy silence blankets them. Still, Sherlock bites his lip. Still, he does not know what to say. It’s like the wounds from dismantling Moriarty's network are reopening on his back. The bruises are reforming around his eyes.

Is John going to walk away? Was it really all for nothing? Everything he did?

The army doctor turns his head, glancing anxiously at the door. Fingers twitching. Hesitating.

And then Sherlock _realises_. That this is it. This is his moment. John's said his speech and now it's his turn. He _can't_ let him change his mind.

He needs to open up, apologise. Give John one good reason not to get up and walk out of this room right now.

"I..."

But he's never been able to express himself. The words lodge in his throat like glass. It's like the ground is sloping inwards. It feels like his chest is about to burst with the pressure of it all.

“I think about you too.” He blurts suddenly, before he has a chance to stop himself. “That’s....” He falters and clears his throat, trying to compose himself. “...why I do the drugs. It helps. Blanks everything out. I just…”

John looks away and takes a pained breath, his whole body tensing. His fingers start to curl at his sides. “Right…”

“But I’m sorry,” Sherlock adds, eyes shifting. “About that. I  _know_  I shouldn’t but, you don’t understand, the temptation is _so_... seductive. I- I struggle with this mind, John. With all the energy trapped inside me. It’s impossible to switch off, all these endless thoughts and emotions. I am haunted by the memory of Moriarty, by his ghost. When we were at Baker Street you used to help, but now... I'm burning up. I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm falling, _always_  falling, and I don't think I'm ever climbing out." 

Sherlock suddenly stops himself, returning sharply from the world he was just lost in, when he realises that John’s grip has tightened on the chair. So hard that his knuckles are turning white, and the eyes behind his hands are squeezed shut.

“Are you angry?”

John takes a shallow breath and rubs at his temples. He stutters, trying to speak before deciding against it. It takes him a whole minute to form an answer. “A bit,” He mutters eventually. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s heart sinks, all the way down to the very bottom of his chest. _Of course_. He should never have opened up, never-

“But I’m also relieved,” John adds quickly, “And grateful. So bloody grateful that you’re alive.” He sits backwards, eyes turning soft. “Look, I know it’s difficult, Sherlock. I know that. And I don’t blame you. Mycroft doesn’t either, but _please,_ never do that to us again. I can't lose you again, ok? I can't.”

Sherlock looks away guiltily. “I won’t.”

“Promise?”

Sherlock swallows and narrows his eyebrows. He doesn't make promises, and in any other situation he would roll his eyes, but-

He dips his head and finally meets John’s gaze. “I... promise.”

Perhaps, for once, this is a vow he should keep.

“So…” He waits for a long moment, looking up at the clock ticking steadily at the other corner of the room.

John follows his gaze. They both watch as the tiny red clock hand takes another sharp jump forward.

“So,” John repeats, blowing some air through his nose and trying to gather enough strength to lean forward and look Sherlock in the eyes, resting his chin on his upturned palms. “What’s the plan? _Our_ plan?” 

Sherlock wipes the remnants of a tear from his cheek, looking up and meeting John’s gaze as he continues to speak.

“What are we going to do?”

 

 

 

***

 

                               

The last three years turn over and over in her head. Memories rotating like a falling coin. Still, she cannot figure it out.

As the minutes continue to pass Mary starts to feel weak, lightheaded, and suddenly has the urge to find somewhere to sit down.

Why? Why run from her?

The rain is getting harder as dawn breaks, steadily turning from drizzle to shower. The water patters on the floor and flattens her hair, starting to drip down the nape of her neck. She shudders irritably and walks further forward, away from the entrance of the hospital to the pavement beside the road.

The air feels clearer here. Sharper. As the wind whisks past her cheeks and the traffic purrs past her, she tries again. 

_Think._

It’s nearly 5am now and the world is waking up again. The roads are filling with trucks and lorries, rolling past with early deliveries. The shallow sunrise reflects in the rain on the wet tarmac. Water dampens the tips of her shoes.

_Travel. Search. Taxi._

She holds her hand out towards the road. A cab looks as if it is slowing but then promptly drives past her.

A flicker of confusion. Sure she saw the orange light. She holds her hand up a little higher.

A minute passes. Another taxi emerges in the queue of cars, it’s orange light gleaming, merging with the apricot sky. It starts to slow and indicate towards the pavement.

 _Finally._ She thinks. She can sit back into the seats and start to gather locations-

But as she moves quickly towards the door, her fingers just inches from the handle, the cab unexpectedly pulls off again, _fast_. So fast the driver must have floored the accelerator. It all happens so quick that she doesn’t even get the chance to see his face.

_What?_

Instinctively she jerks backwards, muttering curses under her breath.

_Two isn't a coincidence, can't be. Why aren’t they stopping? Why won’t they?_

_Oh._

Realisation floods her veins, quick and sharp, like a drug entering her system. The cabs go to pull over, they recognise her, and then they drive off.

_Oh, Mycroft is smart._

It’s the perfect spanner in the words, the fly in the ointment. She snaps the answer like it's the missing clue in a crossword puzzle.

He’s added her to a list, although she was probably already on one, which renders her dangerous. A ‘High-risk suspect', as it used to be known as in the field. Not quite a fugitive but more or less one. She’s seen these things before, and wonders now why she was foolish enough not to expect it. There's probably been alerts sent out all across London. People watching her every move. It’s now impossible for her to travel.

 _Huh._ She scoffs under her breath. It's almost impressive.

She takes a step away from the road and heads back towards the car park. She’s just weaving through the rain splattered cars and trying to figure out her next move when-

A motorbike, with sleek black exterior and heavy duty wheels, catches her attention.

It’s propped delicately against a section of wall beside the doors, helmet resting by its side.

She wanders over casually, biting her lip. Eyes flicking over every detail.

Shiny expensive exterior, well kept, and not more than six months old. A four-stroke engine. A full fuel gauge. 

She’s hijacked vehicles before, all kinds. But as she gets closer she sees it's not even locked up properly, the steering is not even correctly set. The owner must have left it in a rush. It is parked outside the A&E department after all.

A switch flicks in her brain. Lights blink and flutter, and suddenly it's like the mist in her mind is starting to clear, the panic receding the same way fog shrinks across fields. A plan forms in its place. Clear and concise. 

Sometimes life is too easy.

Sometimes, it's all just too good to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I personally thought this was terrible compared to the others, but hopefully you liked it anyhow. Please don't be afraid to tell me what you thought regardless!


	7. A flash of hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's only been just over a week since I updated - I'm improving! I really hope you enjoy this, I spent a very long time on it. I can't decide whether I'm proud or massively embarrassed. But each time I feel insecure I just reread all your lovely comments and it keeps me going, so thank you so much for those. Especially to all my crew on Instagram. I value your support more than anything. Anyway, enough rambling from me. Enjoy!

  
Sherlock shuts his eyes and thinks for a moment, running everything through in his mind.

He takes in their current situation, all of it, and starts to imagine a hundred different scenarios, scenes and outcomes; before predicting their conclusions as best he can. He lets nothing go unmissed, factoring in John behaviour, Mary's. He takes into account the weather, the time, the traffic; how exhausted they all are. In an instant he opens his mind palace and pictures every single detail, every reaction. It’s like he’s inventing a map in his head, drawing lines and making links. He plots Mary’s likely responses, her movements. Tries to decipher where she might be right _now_ , how long they have left.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock breaks from his trance and opens his eyes, letting them wander casually across the small hospital room. It’s cramped and cluttered. Stocked with various different treacherous material, with distractions. He studies their surroundings, marking out all the exits and escape routes. Two windows, one door, and outside that he doesn’t know. He shakes his head lightly - it won’t do. This place, this room, Croydon University Hospital, it’s so far from his normal patch. His area of knowledge. They have no contacts or connections here. No one other than Mycroft who could tie things up if they got sticky. Everything is unpredictable, uncertain.   

Unfamiliar territory.

Not exactly ideal considering what he anticipates is going to happen next.

He needs somewhere he _knows,_  a place he understands like the back of his hand. Somewhere they will all feel comfortable.

He lifts his head and speaks quickly. “Let's get out of here.”

John narrows his eyebrows. He’s been watching the whole time. “What? Really?”

Sherlock shifts on his back and tries to sit up, his arms shaking as he puts pressure on them. Everything _hurts._ He has to pause several times and breathe through the pain, the air hissing through his gritted teeth.

“Err…” John sits forward in the chair and instinctively holds out his hands, offering, debating whether to stand and help. Concern and confusion sweeps across his tired features, sets into his brow.

 _Is Sherlock really trying to get up? Is he still delirious?_  

He squints, watching as his friend continues to try and move. “I know you hate hospital, Sherlock.” He says gently after a moment, “But I’m not sure you’re fit enough to leave yet.”

“Says who?”

Sherlock throws back the sheets at his torso and looks down at his lower body, the flimsy white hospital gown making it look paler and thinner than it already is. _Weak_. He crinkles his nose in disgust and starts to tug at the drip pressed into his hand, an instrument feeding even more drugs into his body.

“Umm,” John stands and walks around to the end of the hospital bed, looking for a chart or a notice, anything with some information, but there’s nothing. “Me?”

Sherlock simply fixes him with a look. He unclips the pulse sensor from his finger and sighs as the machine goes dead beside him. “There were doctors I presume, before, when I was unconscious?”

“Err yes,” John hesitates at the end of the bed, still unsure of what to do. “But that was a while ago...” He watches as Sherlock tears off the plaster holding the needle in his arm and starts to pull it out carefully. Strangely, the sight of it makes him wince. “...when they weren’t sure if you were going to wake up. They didn’t tell me anything actually and - are you sure you should be taking that out?”

“Oh shh,” Sherlock huffs, placing the drip to one side and blinking rapidly, concentrating. “Stop fussing. I’ve had quite enough drugs for one day, don’t you think?”

John purses his lips. “Yes but that’s Morphine, Sherlock. That will help with the - woah steady!” He rushes to the other man’s side as Sherlock unexpectedly tries to swing his legs from the bed and start walking, his attempt to be composed failing. He wobbles all over the place. Grasps weakly at the sheets.

“Ok careful, careful,” John reaches Sherlock’s side and grabs hold of his shoulders. He steadies him before sliding a gentle arm around his waist and taking as much weight as he can. Sherlock rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist.

“I’m fine, John.”

“You’re not fine.”

They both strain as Sherlock lifts himself from the bed once more and tries to stand. His legs tremble beneath him, quivering like jelly. His head sags weakly on John’s shoulder. It takes an enormous amount of effort just to stay upright.

John grips him firmly, his fingers securing around the handle of Sherlock’s hip. He looks anxiously towards the door. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk.” Sherlock grunts as they begin to stumble forwards, “Besides, it’s a bit late for that now.”

They hobble across the room towards the door, Sherlock slumping against the wall for a break whenever he can. They both wince as the bright corridor lights blind them the second they leave the room.

“What the-”

Mycroft stands before them, aghast, clearly having just risen from his chair. His eyebrows look like they’re about to rise off his head. His umbrella actually slips from his fingers and falls to the floor, but the corridor is otherwise empty.

“You can’t just walk out?!” He hisses, swooping down to pick up his umbrella and tactically blocking their path. He glares daggers at John.

“I’m sorry Mycroft, he just got up, I don’t-”

“Oh, let's not waste time!” Sherlock exclaims, trying to pull both he and John forward. “I’ve already told you both I’m _fine_.”

But John keeps hold of him. Mycroft steps forward. They reply in unison.

“You’re not.”   

Sherlock growls in frustration and reaches out to grab Mycroft’s blazer, pulling him closer so that he can whisper in his ear. He lowers his voice. “Think about it, brother dear. We only have a matter of _time_ now, don’t we. So unless you want everything to happen here, in public, in a place we can’t control...”

Mycroft steps backwards and rearranges his shirt collar. His expression is inscrutable.

John finds his grip intuitively tightening around Sherlock’s waist. He glances between them.

“Fine.” The elder Holmes huffs after a moment, stepping aside. “But where then?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “There’s only one place we would go.” He looks down to John and smiles at him weakly, his hand coming up to squeeze the smooth curve of his shoulder. “We’re going home. Back to Baker Street.”

 

***

 

Mycroft stands back and watches as the pair begin to shuffle forwards. Sherlock having to rely almost entirely on John. His arm drapes across his back, his head rests heavily on the other man’s shoulder. He winces in pain every time they take a step. His bare legs shaking, frail and unsteady. Pale against the hospital floor, weirdly exposed now that they're out in the open. The hospital gown only comes down to his knees.

“Here, let me-”

Mycroft stops hesitating and moves to Sherlock’s free side. He hooks his umbrella on his arm and pauses, offering Sherlock his shoulder, his support. Surprise flickers briefly in his brother’s eyes.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock slides his arm around Mycroft’s back, and John smiles gently as they shuffle to arrange themselves. Sherlock’s arms around each of their shoulders, his weight shared equally between them. He exhales lightly through his nose.

“Thank you.”

The three of them start to move steadily towards the doors, heading down the long narrow corridor to the exit.

Still, there seems to be no one around to stop them.

Relief settles lightly in Sherlock’s stomach. Now supported by two people, not one, he finds he barely has to put any weight on the ground. Slowly, the pain starts to recede and becomes numb. Bearable at least.

“There’s a car outside,” Mycroft announces as they reach the entrance. “I arranged for there to be clothes too, so you can change.”  

“Thank you,” Sherlock nods.

Mycroft releases himself from Sherlock’s grip and smiles courtly, stepping back and straightening his jacket. “Good luck,” He makes sure he catches John’s gaze as he speaks. “As always, text me if I am needed.”

 

***

 

They settle back into the seats, Sherlock practically collapsing the second the car door is shut. He lets his body go limp as soon as physically possible, sinking downwards, lacking even the basic energy needed to prevent his head from slumping back.

He takes several long deep breaths, and wipes away the sweat starting to collect in droplets along his hairline. John is leaning forward and talking to the driver, but Sherlock zones out. He finds his gaze fixed on the car window, on the hundreds of tiny raindrops dotting the glass. He watches them reflect and glitter in the light as the car starts to pull forwards, off into the apricot dawn.

Finally, back to the one place he loves most.

John keeps his gaze fixed on the contents of the window too, watching the grey London buildings as they pass by. Not once does he try and catch Sherlock's eye. He twiddles his fingers pointlessly in his lap, his back straight, legs hunched and tense. Sherlock’s eyes dart back and forth quickly, watching, observing all these movements in detail.

Anxious. Paranoid. Scared. Confused.

It’s everything he needs to know, all in one glance. Sometimes, people are just so easy to read.

Without thinking he reaches forward and lets his hand stray across to John’s side of the car, hesitating just inches away from the other man’s knee.

Can he be so bold? Should he be?

John still hasn’t noticed, his palm resting gingerly on his thigh. Slowly, Sherlock takes a shallow breath and reaches further, taking care to make his movements slow and delicate, cautious not to startle him. He holds his breath as their fingertips brush over each other. The touch so soft, so light and brief, that it sends tingles running down Sherlock’s spine.

John’s eyes snap from the window. He looks startled but doesn’t pull away. Sherlock holds his gaze, his pupils reflecting the soft glow of the sunrise, a burst of orange light suddenly streaming in through the window.

_We can do this._

The sun disappears as quickly as it arrived, vanishing back behind a building, allowing dark shadows to cast themselves across the insides of the cab once more. 

_A flash of hope, a flicker of optimism._

John just nods his head slowly, seeming to understand Sherlock’s unspoken assurance. He removes his hand and digs it into his pocket to pull out his phone, the light from the screen illuminating his face as he unlocks it. He types a message quickly and shows Sherlock the screen.

“Ok?”

Sherlock's eyes dart back and forth, processing the words in a heartbeat.

“Ok.”

John withdraws his hand. His finger hovers for a moment as he rereads the message, double-checking it one last time.

_Meet us at Baker Street as soon as possible. I’m sorry._

He takes a breath and presses send.

 

***

 

The motorbike engine roars loudly beneath her. The wheels screech and spin and she flies around corners, across junctions, past pedestrians. Not stopping for anything. She squeezes through the gaps between cars, overtakes the buses trundling across Westminster Bridge.

As the bike zooms she glances sideways, only allowing herself one quick glance at the Thames, at the pink sunrise reflecting off the water, before pulling her foot back up on the clutch and revving the accelerator.

Faster. Faster. _Faster_.

There are over eighty Hospitals in London, but the process of elimination takes that straight down to about twenty.

The clock is ticking.

She’s already contacted KH, Dalvegur, and some other names from her past. People who might still be undercover on the streets. Agents. Waiting. Hiding. Working. More than one of them owes her a favour.

She slows as her phone vibrates in her pocket. The number shows up blank. The caller ID is masked. Standard practice.

“Hello?” She slides the phone underneath her helmet, steering the bike carefully with one hand.

“Rose,” A man’s voice drawls from the end of the phone, deep and throaty. A thick Romanian accent. “It’s been a while,”

“Yeah hi,”

“I’ve been to the Royal London Hospital and Mile End, no sign. No one knew anything. Black curly hair and a short blond, right?”

“Yeah,” Mary has the hold the phone in place with her shoulder as she uses two hands to steer through another set of traffic, cutting along Whitehall. “Look for a black coat and a blue scarf, that’ll be the giveaway.”

“Got it. I’ll head west to Barts.”

“No,” Mary wipes the drizzle from her helmet, smearing her vision briefly. “I’ll take Barts. You go south.”

The conversation repeats itself several times over. Each call with a different agent, a different undercover organisation. It seems she has more friends in the field than she remembers. Slowly, she is able to tick off more and more locations from her list.  

The traffic stacks up. The inevitable doom of rush hour. She starts to take extra shortcuts through back streets, through cramped alleyways and along winding footpaths. The heat from the engine is warming through to her thighs. People squeal and dodge out of the way, jumping left right and centre.

_Faster._

She goes off road and shortcuts another corner, jumping the pavement just past the Royal Opera house. Her phone sounds in her pocket, vibrates too. A personalised text alert.

A text from John.

Her heart lurches. The world slows. She looks down, ignoring the road, and fumbles frantically with the zip of her pocket. How long has it been since she’s heard from him? How long-

A horn blares suddenly. The front wheel of the bike twists out from beneath her. Brakes screech and squeal, so loud the sound deafens her eardrums. In an instant everything turns very slow, surreal, yet unbelievably quick at the same time. She looks up just as momentum throws her body from the bike. The engine growling as her foot flies from the clutch. She falls sideways into the road, flipping and rolling in mid-air, her elbows grating the tarmac, and travels roughly two meters before crashing to a halt at the kerb of the pavement. The screeching lorry sails past milliseconds after. It’s huge industrial wheels just inches from her face. The exhaust fumes fill her lungs.

“Oh my…”

Her ears ring with painful white noise. When she opens her eyes the world is sideways. Her vision slanting and blurring, blobs of colour showing people rushing towards her. Shouting, calling for help. Their fuzzy faces shocked. Terrified.

The motorbike comes to a smoking halt at the other side of the road, its wheels still spinning uncontrollably, the engine whirring. All the traffic stops.

“Are you alright?!”

Someone yanks the helmet from her head. Mary squints and puts a hand to her face slowly. Blood wets her fingers.

“I’m…”

How could she be so stupid.

“Let’s get you off the road. Someone call an ambulance!”

The ringing is starting to fade. The sound of her heartbeat thunders viciously in her ears. Her vision sharpens unexpectedly as shock kicks in, suddenly making it very difficult to breathe. She tries feebly to push up onto her elbows. A woman with a red coat is holding her arm.

“I’m…” Mary’s throat feels incredibly dry. She looks down and attempts to move her lower body. Her jeans are ripped, and her limbs feel battered and bruised, but otherwise they seem fine. “I think…” She surveys the rest of herself. Grazed elbows. A cut on her forehead, blood dribbling down the side of her face, but remarkably, that’s it.

“I think I’m fine.” She manages at last, pushing herself to her feet. Everything shakes as she moves. Throbbing with pain. The adrenaline is off the scale.

“No you sit down love, the ambulance is coming.”

“No…” Dread rolls in her stomach at the thought of an ambulance, of more pointless waiting around.

“Cancel it.” She looks straight into the woman’s eyes, still dazed and delirious. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are…”

But Mary has stopped listening. She looks past the woman distractedly, over to the carnage of the motorbike in the road. The world is still blurring slightly at the edges. She speaks her thoughts aloud. “I need to find my phone.”

The woman pulls a face. “I think that’s the least of your worries,”

Mary ignores her and presses her hand across jacket pocket. Empty. It must have fallen out during the crash.

People are still saying things, still putting their hands gently on her shoulders. Trying to sit her down. It creates a constant blur of background noise. Their words are starting to jumble together into one big mess in her mind.

_John…_

She spots her phone on the ground a couple of meters away. The corner of the screen is smashed.

“You’re in shock love, please sit down,”

“No!” Something within her finally snaps, and she breaks away from the swarm of people, ducking under the woman’s elbow and stumbling out onto the empty road. She dashes over to the motorbike and swoops her phone. The sirens of the incoming ambulance wail in the distance.

“What are you doing?!”

The people are coming after her. The rain is drizzling down into her hair, misting her vision. Everything is shaking. She can’t physically stay here and wait for the ambulance, suffer more delays and distractions. She _can’t_. It’s just not an option. She’s probably fine anyway, it would just be a waste of time. Besides, what if John is actually hurt?

She glances around at the destruction surrounding her, the smoking motorbike lying on its side. Probably no luck there. She focuses on her location, the intersection between Bow Street and Russell Street. Four exits to main roads, and alleyways after that. Could she make a run for it?

The split decision she makes is _yes_.

She slides her phone into her pocket and dashes forwards, away from the crowd of people shouting and calling after her. She runs as fast as she can, limping slightly, and decides to head towards Covent Garden. It’s somewhere condense. Somewhere she can lose herself in the crowds. Talking encircles her as she dips into the market and slows to a walk, trying to cover her bleeding head as she goes, passing the various shops and stalls, the places selling food.

But, it seems no one has followed her, or if they have, she’s lost them already.

She limps for several streets until she is sure she is alone. An alleyway off Floral Street provides the perfect temporary hiding place. She leans back against the wall, concealing herself in an arch, breathing heavily.

Finally, she allows herself to check her phone.

_Meet us at Baker Street as soon as possible. I’m sorry._

She tilts her head backwards and blinks, twice. Tears starting to collect in the corner of her eyes. Her head aching. There is a lot to decipher from that message.

‘Us’ and implies both of them, both Sherlock and John together, probably safe.

‘As soon as possible’ means urgent, yet how can it be if the case does not involve her, and they are both fine?

‘I’m sorry’ transmits a lot of guilt. An immeasurable amount if John can’t wait until she gets there to say it.

_What?_

Dread enters her system like a deadly poison. The adrenaline is now starting to wear off. Every muscle in her body screams with pain. She licks her thumb and wipes some of the blood from her forehead, wincing as she does so.

This isn't a game anymore.

At this point, she’s tired of trying to figure everything out, exhausted by it even. Nothing makes sense.

She clicks her phone and slides it back into her pocket. There are only two words on her mind. One direction. 

Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it wouldn't be Sherlock if it wasn't ridiculously dramatic right? I've somehow made myself feel really quite sorry for Mary now?! Which was never the plan but anyway, I promise the big showdown scene will happen in the next chapter. Again, thank you for being so patient and lovely.


	8. The clock stops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I am so sorry about the massive delay for this chapter. I had the worst writers' block I've ever experienced and been insanely busy applying for jobs and things. It is 6000 words though so it's sort of like you're getting two in one? ;)  
> Anyway, I really hope you like this, it is by far the most challenging and emotional piece I've ever written.  
> Please don't forget to listen to my playlist for this fic, which you can find [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/1128856992/playlist/7CzhAXNhbsWbhKPgU26ZVZ)  
> And finally, hold on tight, because this is going to be an angsty ride...

Sherlock grips the banister of the stairs. John wheezes loudly beside him.

“Nearly there,”

They struggle on, John using his grip around Sherlock’s waist to help push him upwards. They take the stairs up to 221B very steadily, one at a time. Sherlock has to stop them at least twice, clutching onto John and shutting his eyes as black dots start to appear in the centre of his vision.

“Alright?”

John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder. The stair creaks quietly below them. A moment passes.

“Yes,” Sherlock opens his eyes and forces himself to take another shaky step forward. Everything is spinning. “I’ll be fine, there’s only a few more…”

They manage to make it all the way to the top, up to the landing, before the noise seems to wake Mrs Hudson. She bursts out of her door and rushes up the stairs towards them, dressed in only her nightie, all smiles and dainty steps until-

“Oh gosh,”

Her eyes settle on Sherlock, who’s leaning weakly against the wall by the flat door. His eyes are puffy, his pupils spaced out.

She freezes in shock as her gaze travels over his greasy ruffled hair and tear-stained cheeks. The partly unbuttoned shirt that reveals a sheen of cold sweat covering his chest.

Sherlock smiles faintly.

Because actually, he’s never been so pleased to see her.

“Hello Mrs Hudson,” He says as brightly as he can manage. “Tea?”

“Oh, Sherlock! What's happened to you!?” His landlady breaks from her trance and begins to bustle around him, squeezing his shoulders and straightening out his shirt collar before glancing anxiously to John. “You look awful!”

John slides the key in the lock and pushes the door to the flat open. He says nothing except retake his position under Sherlock’s shoulder and start to help him inside, simply fixing Mrs Hudson with a look as he goes.

One simple look that tells her everything.

 _“_ Oh… _”_

Her face falls, crushing disappointment and betrayal flitting momentarily in her eyes. “Oh,  _Sherlock_ …” She gasps slightly. Covers her mouth.

And that  _hurts_. Just as much as it did with John at the hospital. Guilt snakes back through Sherlock’s stomach, twisting itself around his organs like a python; flowing through his veins like a sickness. The world unexpectedly waves in and out of focus again and for a second he thinks he might black out.

_What's the matter, Sherlock? Feeling embarrassed about all this now?_

John grips his arm. “Steady,”

But he doesn't. Instead Sherlock just stares solidly at the ground as John takes the majority of his weight and leads him away through the door, switching on the lamp he goes.

They both pause as the light bulb takes a while to flicker into life. But when it does...

John’s mouth actually falls open.

“Oh...god...”

The flat looks terrible. An absolute bomb site, as if it has been ransacked or burgled overnight. Everything is messy and unorganised, even more so than normal. All the furniture seems slightly out of place. Every surface is covered in sheets of paper, books, rubbish, meaningless clutter. Pieces of litter scatter the floor. There's magazines and newspapers cut-outs, data from experiments, endless streams of material from the frantic string of cases Sherlock's been completing on his own recently. His skull lies cracked on the floor by the fireplace. The wall has several new gunshot holes, and one larger one from where it's been kicked.

“Jesus,” John frowns and exhales through his nose as he peers around the glass divider to the kitchen. He eyes up all the dirty plates stacked up on the sides, the broken glass distributed across the floor. Splatters of dried blood.

“Well I would've tidied if I'd known this was going to happen,” Sherlock grumbles, following his gaze. He frees himself from John’s grip and stumbles over to his chair unaided. “No point most of the time though. It’s been at least a month since you were last here.” He kicks a suspicious looking package out of sight with his foot.

“Right…” John takes in the rest of the flat sadly, the memories of how it used to be appearing one by one in front of him. The image of the past falling before his eyes like a transparent stage curtain. He blinks it away quickly.

“It's been awful,” Mrs Hudson whispers rather unsubtly as she arrives at his side. “Really awful since you left.” They both watch as Sherlock collapses himself into his chair and groans loudly. “He doesn't eat, doesn’t sleep.” She lowers her voice. “He  _never_ tidies or goes out. The  _noise_  I have to put up with, John. The gunshots, the... _substances_. I have been trying to tell you - I’ve -” Her voice cracks.

“Yeah alright, alright, shh,” John whispers, pulling her into a quick embrace to stop her from upsetting herself any further. He runs his hand gently down her back and tilts his head towards her ear. “You know, I think we might just sort it out now.”

“Really?”

Mrs Hudson pulls back, her eyes shining. John’s never seen her look so hopeful.

“Maybe.” He tries for tired a smile. “Sherlock’s right though, a cup of tea might be needed.”

“Of course,” Mrs Hudson nods, “I’ll get a pot.” She takes one last fleeting look at Sherlock before moving towards the stairs. “Oh, and John?”

He turns.

“I've got Rosie downstairs, she's asleep bless her. Mary dropped her off and said it was urgent? I-”

“Yes,” John interrupts sharply. Because just hearing his wife’s name  _hurts_ ; makes his stomach churn. He clears his throat and tries to smile reassuringly. “Yes I gathered that, thank you.”

“Oh good,” Mrs Hudson’s face clears, and she smiles once more before disappearing down the stairs to the kitchen.

The second she leaves a cold silence blankets them, so tense it's like there's an invisible force pressing inwards. Every minute seems to drag past painfully. It's like John can hear a clock ticking in his mind. A timer counting down to an explosion, but no one has the power to stop it.

His head rings with only one thought.

_Mary._

How will she react? What will she say? What will she  _do_?

“Well,” He says after a moment, crossing the room and making some space for himself on his old chair, sweeping a few yellowing newspapers onto the floor. He clicks his phone. “She still hasn’t replied."

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at him gravely, slouched in his chair, the amber light from the lamp catching on the smooth curve of his cheekbones. “She won’t.” He says lowly, taking a deep breath and pulling out his phone to look at the time.

 _7.50am_.

“She’ll just come straight here.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Mary stands outside the infamous black door of 221B Baker Street and pauses for a moment to catch her breath.

The pale yellow bricks seem to tower oddly in front of her. A train rattles faintly through the station a few streets away. The road is quiet - silent even - but not peaceful. Instead it feels eerie. Rigged. As if someone’s watching her. She glances cautiously over her shoulder.

_They probably are._

Her gaze travels upwards, and she scans the building to try and re-familiarise herself with it - it’s been awhile since either she or John have been here.

Her eyes trail slowly across the railings, the guttering, the outlines of all the different bricks and shadows, and for the first time she notices the white paint covering the window ledges is cracked and chipped, the windows are slightly dirty. There’s a few weeds peeking through the gaps in the pavement, remnants of chewing gum on the concrete slabs.

It’s not quite as perfect as she remembers, or perhaps, she’s just seeing it differently now.

Her eyes drift automatically to the contents of the living room window. The lights are on but the curtains are drawn. Her chest suddenly grows tight. A new set of nerves flood her system.

_John is in there._

She stops hesitating and steps forwards towards the door, trying to focus on calming her breathing. Her hand moves naturally to knock the lopsided brass knocker as she approaches, but, she suddenly realises she doesn’t have to.

A thin slit of light catches her eye, a glimpse of the hallway.

_The door isn’t locked._

She holds her breath as she pushes it open, frowning as she watches it swings inwards.

It has been left like that deliberately. Ajar.

_They’re expecting her._

All of the hair stand up on the back of Mary's neck. This feels wrong, very wrong. What if it’s a trap?

She passes through the empty hallway and begins heading up the stairs, noticing the light is on in Mrs Hudson’s room, her outline dancing through the clouded window as she moves around the kitchen. She quietens her footsteps, not wanting to be disturbed. There’s no doubt Rosie will be safely asleep in the bedroom.

Time starts to feel slower. The steps to the flat are becoming fewer and fewer. The door is getting closer and closer. Her breath is becoming hard to keep steady.

There’s still time to turn back. Still time to retreat.

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

The murmur of low voices greets her ears as she climbs the final stair and tiptoes onto the landing. She takes another silent step forward. Pauses. The talking becomes clearer.

“Really, Sherlock?”

_John._

Relief gushes through her, like a rush of cold water. The realisation stings. He’s safe. He’s alive.

She tilts her cheek and holds her breath, listening just outside the door. Her fingers curl noiselessly around the handle.

“Yes don’t be so stupid.” Sherlock’s snaps in reply. “I  _had_ to go away. My entire effort to dismantle Moriarty’s network was for you.”

“But-" John sounds increasingly desperate. "You could’ve called-”

“No that would have defeated the whole point!” Sherlock cries, exasperation erupting in his voice. “Don’t you  _see…_ ”

And all of a sudden Mary can’t stand it any longer. The arguing, the waiting. Not  _knowing_ what’s going on. This can’t continue. She has to get answers; right now. She has to see John again and kiss him, she-

“No I don’t  _see_  anything!” John is yelling. “I don’t understand-”

 _Thud_.

The door swings open.

Everyone freezes.

Time slows to a standstill.

 _Silence_.

Cold and painful. The kind you get in the split second before an explosion, the moment before someone pulls the trigger of a gun; sets off a bomb. It’s the kind that lasts a  _lifetime_.

A bead of sweat trickles down Sherlock’s pale forehead. John’s fingers dig sharply into his palms.

Because Mary is standing motionlessly in the doorway. Her hands trembling. Her heartbeat thundering. She forces a smile.

“Hello.”

John’s face crumples.

“Mary.”

Time restarts again as she rushes forwards and flings her arms around his neck, so tight he can’t breathe. He doesn’t stop her.

Sherlock blinks.

“I was so worried about you,” She chokes into his hair, her arms moving to wrap firmly around his back. “So worried,” She releases her grip and dives in quickly for a kiss, but John pulls away; his gaze suddenly transfixed on the cut on her forehead, on the dried blood running past her temple.

“Christ...what happened to you?!” He pushes her back to arm's length and runs his fingers across the wound, the patches of purple already signs of severe bruising. He doesn’t pull away when she flinches. His voice grows dark. “How did you get this?”

But Mary isn’t listening. She glances past him at Sherlock, who still hasn’t moved from his chair. “I…” She looks the detective up and down quickly, studying him, deducing anything she can. Dangerously pale cheeks. Dark bags under his eyes. Sweat layering forehead. Ill? Injured?

_What???_

John looks impatient. “Mary?”

“I crashed a motorbike,” She finishes at last, her voice calm, eyes placid as she finally meets her husband’s gaze. “I was stupid.”

“You what?!”

John takes a sharp step back, genuine shock and astonishment flaring in his eyes. He looks appalled. Devastated and impressed. All at the same time. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

“Well, I didn’t predict that.”

“Don’t.” John turns on him instantly, thrusting a threatening hand in the detective’s direction. “Just...” His words come out as a low warning, a guttural growl. “…don’t.”

He shifts his attention back to Mary and pulls her arm towards him - without asking - to get a better look at her elbows. He pushes her jacket from her shoulders, revealing red patches on her jumper, indications of where blood has seeped through. Blobs of dirt and dust from the road decorate the blue fabric. She holds still as he rolls up her sleeves carefully.

“Christ…”

John’s voice grows deeper, darker, like a spark running through gunpowder. His expression reminds her vaguely of thunder.

“There’s gravel.” He murmurs as he inspects her elbows. “These cuts need to be cleaned or they might get infected.” He sharpens up. “Why the hell were you on a motorbike? Where? When?”

“Earlier!” Mary retracts her arm, instantly defensive. “When I was trying to find you. You both just disappeared and no one was answering their phones. I thought you were in danger, John. I thought this was serious.” She glares between them. “Why weren’t you answering your calls? What's happened? What’s going on?”

Another long, tenuous silence fills the space between them.

It's like the walls are melting.

The air is thinning.

The clock is  _still_ ticking.

John tries to speak but then drops his head and turns away, taking a few shaky steps towards the kitchen. His eyes are already brimming with tears. His chest feels as if it might burst. He can’t  _breathe_.

“John?”

Mary moves as if to follow but then decides against it. She watches as her husband places his hands on the kitchen counter and closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling vigorously. She can’t tell if he’s about to cry or commit murder.

“John?”

The silence continues to swarm around them. It’s so deafening; so impenetrable, that they could be underwater.

Mary takes another cautious step forwards. Her voice wobbles slightly this time. “John, tell me please. What is it?”

The army doctor curls his fists. His knuckles are starting to turn white. An ugly sort of strangled sound escapes from his throat.

“I... _can’t_.”

A shuffling sound breaks the fragile silence that follows. Sherlock is sitting himself up in his chair, wincing as he moves, his eyelids heavy. His words come out as little more than a whisper.

“Don’t.” He beckons Mary to step away from John with his eyes, as if she were standing too close to something dangerous. “Leave him. I’ll explain.”

Mary turns and moves until she’s hovering awkwardly behind John’s chair. She tries to keep her expression unreadable, her eyes blank. But it doesn't work.

“You might want to sit down.”

“No,” The word leaves Mary’s mouth automatically before she even has a chance to stop it. She scoffs lightly and resists the urge to roll her eyes, trying to hide the storm of panic building on the inside. “Just tell me.”

Sherlock just looks at her gravely, staring her down. His usually pale blue eyes are dark and heavy bags sag underneath them, the angle of the lamp causing shadows to cut across his face, sharpening his cheekbones and amplifying his features, his expression. It’s the way he’s looking at her. She’s never once seen him look so drained. So serious. His tired gaze melts steadily into her own and it takes her a while to recognise the look on his face, simply because it’s so unusual. So unlike him. It’s  _pity_.

_Oh god._

She moves round to the front of the chair and sits without hesitation. The sound of her own heartbeat thumps thickly in her ears. She can almost feel her expression falling, breaking, the cracks beginning to show. Her façade is deteriorating fast.

“I...”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again. He wriggles uncomfortably. Remains silent for a long moment. He can’t look her in the eye.

“Well?” She asks.

Still nothing.

A tingling runs itself all the way along Mary’s back. She can't  _bare_  this. It feels like she might actually explode with apprehension, with the anxiety of it all. She can’t wait a single second longer.

“Sherlock? Please?”

The detective takes a deep breath.

Because there is no turning back from this. No backing down. Once said it becomes official. It becomes real. The consequences will be irreversible. He gulps. This is it _._

This. Is. It.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“I overdosed.”

The words come out far too quickly, and in such a jumble, that he’s not sure she will have been able to understand them. An immediate silence follows.

 _Shock._ He predicts.  _Sympathy._

But he can’t be sure, because although he wants to look up and gauge her reaction, to catalogue every flicker and detail of her face, his eyes won’t move from the floor. Shame takes over his body with the force of a tidal wave, jarring his movements and closing his throat. The feeling is indescribable. It's guilt off the scale. A virus that infects every single cell of his body, pulses in each muscle, rattles in his bones with the magnitude of an earthquake.

“Oh...god.”

Sherlock can tell from the squeak of John’s chair that Mary is sitting forward and trying to get a better look at him.

“How bad was it?” She asks softly. “At the hospital...what did they-”

“Wait,” Sherlock interrupts, because he can’t stand how innocent her tone of voice is, how much she cares. “There’s more.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock takes another shallow breath. He looks up in the hope of catching John’s eye but he still hasn’t moved from the kitchen. He faces away from them, unmoving. Yet the tension in his arms and the slight tilt of his cheek tells Sherlock that he’s listening intently, ready to intervene at any moment.

“So,” Sherlock winces as he readies himself to continue. “When John and Mycroft... _found_  me, I…” He grimaces at the memory, regret and fear and dread uncoiling like a broken spring in his stomach. “I was already tripping and having some rather...horrific... _um_ …” He clears his throat. “Hallucinations.”

“About?”

Sherlock swallows thickly.

John shuffles awkwardly on his feet from the kitchen. He still doesn’t turn around.

“…Moriarty.” 

Mary’s eyebrows narrow. “But he’s...dead? Isn’t he?”

_You’re going to love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you._

Sherlock blinks, and his fingers twitch against his will as the coal black darkness of Moriarty’s eyes flashes before him. He sees the unnatural whiteness of Jim's teeth. The blood…

_I’m gonna burn, the heart out of you._

He exhales sharply and shakes his head. Trying to snap himself out of it and rid his brain of the memories; stop the sound of his own screams from ringing in his ears.  _No!_

Mary is still looking at him. Confused and concerned. She tilts her head to one side questioningly, like a puppy that doesn’t quite understand.

“No,” Sherlock says at last, stammering as he speaks. “He’s not  _dead_.“ He lifts a weak finger to his temple. “Not in here.”

John releases his grip on the kitchen counter and straightens up, exhaling loudly. He takes a few unsteady steps towards them.

“I took a higher dosage than normal you see,” Sherlock continues. ”I upped it by five percent, in order to block him out.”

John’s face clouds over.

“But it didn’t...work. He was there anyway and...I actually…” He gulps. The look of disappointment on John’s face is worse than being repeatedly kicked in the chest. “I nearly didn’t make it. Everything seemed to deteriorate, very quickly and...I almost…” He chokes on his words, forcing them from his throat. “…gave up. Until...”

“Until what?” Mary is now perched on the edge of the seat. Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. She  _knows_ now that this is not it. Not the news she’s been waiting for. That the worst is yet to come.

“Until John said something...he  _did_  something.”

“What did you say?” Mary whips around on the chair, her sharp eyes coming to track every movement on her husband’s face. “John?”

Sherlock catches John’s eye. He’s never seen his best friend look so terrified, so broken. It's like he's torn between the both of them, ripped straight down the middle. Trapped in a battle between his mind and his heart. 

Sherlock gives him a small nod.

 _It has to come from you._ He says with his eyes.  _Now, would be good._

 

 

 

_***_

 

 

 

It’s like there’s an abyss in John’s stomach. A desert in his throat. Nothing has ever felt so surreal. His vision has been reduced to an uneven blur. All the noises are too loud. His senses too sharp.

 _How_ does he even attempt to put this into words?

Mary is looking at him. Sherlock is looking at him. A panic in his chest indicates that he needs to speak now; just say it all before it’s too late.

“So…” He voice comes out as a dry, pained mess. “Mary. The thing is…”

And all the films were wrong, the books too, because the worst feeling in the world isn’t having your heart broken. It’s breaking someone else’s.

He just has to say it. Now.

“I cheated on you.”

The clock stops.

“With Sherlock.”

And just like that, it’s like the bomb has finally exploded. The gun has been fired, right at Mary’s chest.

_Direct hit._

The atmosphere shatters like glass around them. Everything slows. Time seems to halt to a standstill, a slow motion freeze frame, just like before.

“What?”

Mary’s voice is shallow. Hollow. Like it’s not quite real.

Sherlock drops his head into his hands.

"You...?"

Mary takes several deep, stunted, breaths. Her lower lip starts to tremble against her will. Her eyebrows narrow slightly. She doesn’t bother concealing the array of emotions sweeping across her face. She almost chokes on her own breath. “So...you- you two...?"

But she can't find it within herself to form words anymore. It’s like her brain has temporarily gone offline, shut itself down with shock. She stands without actually registering what she is doing.

“I’m sorry.” John is saying, mumbling, babbling, trying to get closer to her. He presses his hands down firmly on her shoulders. “I’m so sorry. We both are. It wasn’t supposed to be like this-“

But the words feel very far away, as if she’s in a bubble drifting away from the real world. She can’t believe it.

“Mary, please. Listen to me.”

Yet at the same time, a part of her, a small part that she ignored all these years,  _knew_  it. She'd known things hadn't been quite right when Sherlock returned from the dead. Why wasn't John happy then? He'd been angry, initially, but even  _months_  afterwards he'd still seemed conflicted. Upset. Bitter.

“Oh don't cry.” John starts to plead, “Mary, please.”

She can picture it now, all the odd moments she shrugged off as nothing. How John's smile was never quite the same. How he thrummed his fingers impatiently on the table tops, constantly checked his phone, took on far too many shifts at the surgery. Actually, those few months are when she can first pinpoint their relationship going downhill.

“How…” She is still struggling to form a coherent sentence. The words take a long time to leave her lips. She pulls back from the arms crowding her shoulders. “How could you?”

John winces as if he is in pain. “I…”

“And what about Rosie?” Mary wipes a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. It disgusts her but she can’t help it. “Oh John,” Her voice cracks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t-“ John is now trying to hold back tears too. “I didn’t know! I had no idea that’s how Sherlock felt. He-“ He turns to the detective still slouched in his chair, head in his hands. “He never bloody tells me anything!”

Sherlock raises his head slowly. His cheeks are wet. His lip curls up aggressively. “Oh, so this is  _my_  fault now?”

A switch flicks in John’s mind, and he can feel a new-found anger starting to simmer in the ends of his fingertips. His body language shifts in an instant. His stance changes entirely. He turns to Sherlock and replies simply with a smile. The kind of unnerving, sarcastic smile he reserves exclusively for the rare moment’s he’s about to punch someone. “Well partly,” He growls. “Yes!”

“What? How?”

_How?_

And it's that word, and that word alone, that finally drives John to breaking point. It presses the final button, snaps the last chord, and sends him plummeting over the edge. It’s like being dropped into boiling hot water.

 _How_  can Sherlock be so ignorant?

 _How_  does he not understand?

"Because you went away!" John cries, the rage tearing through his veins like a forest fire, making his voice tremble. "You disappeared, Sherlock, for two years. Just off on your own little adventure, and I moved on, of course I did- I-”

"It was  _not_  an adventure," Sherlock says quietly.

"Oh wasn't it?" John spits. "What was it France? Russia? Slovakia? Your own holiday, a one-stop tour of Europe." He tilts his head sarcastically. "Oh let's not worry about John, I'll just fake my own death for two years. He'll be fine with that. Everything will be just how I left it."

"It wasn't like that," Sherlock mumbles, staring at the ground.

"Really?” John sneers down at him coldly. “Because that's how it seemed to me. I mourned your death for two years, Sherlock, and you let me! You let me do that. You let me suffer."

Sherlock gulps. Everything is spiralling out of control. His eyes are filling with tears. John’s words are making him flinch. He’d rather have the ground swallow him up, or the stress of all this cause him black out, than continue sitting here with John towering above him and Mary standing just behind. He physically can’t look either of them in the eye. It takes every inch of his willpower to keep his voice steady.

"I've already told you, I  _had_  to go away otherwise Moriarty would have killed you. I had to dismantle his  _entire_ network if we were going to expect to live in any kind of peace.” He puts up his familiar barrier of arrogance, the only defence he has left. “How much plainer can I put it?”

John jolts forwards, crowding into Sherlock’s space. His voice transforms into a low snarl. “Oh _don’t_  get smart with me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pushes himself to his feet suddenly, ignoring the pain that shoots through his body. He matches John's hostile stance. The move bringing them so close that their noses are almost touching, their chests too. He is nearly a full head higher than John. He clenches his fists.

“What is this?” John hisses.

Sherlock lifts both his hands and pushes firmly at the rounds of John's shoulders, just enough to make him sway backwards. He makes sure the force ripples slowly through John’s body, across his chest. It's a display of strength. A warning.

_Don’t test me._

"Seriously? John squints in disbelief. His expression is dangerously sour. He almost laughs. “This is ridiculous.”

But Sherlock has never looked so determined. He tilts his head.

“Is it?”

John squares his shoulders. It wouldn't take much to take the bait right now, hardly anything in fact. There’d be no trouble mustering up the courage or the strength, no hesitation before he swung forward.

He stares into Sherlock’s eyes, the younger man's pupils’ dark and wide. Determined. It would be  _easy_. So easy just to give in and let the anger take him over. He only has to think about the drugs, the arrogance, or the fake suicide, and he sees red. Those two years were the longest of his life. Does Sherlock know that? They were worse than any prison sentence, more depressing than any illness. He was a man trapped in his own body, a ghost imprisoned in his own mind. He didn't eat, never slept, nearly... and then he met Mary, and he was happy again, he was, until…

Sherlock came back.

The rage floods his system again, hot and heavy. Fire tingles in the hairs on the back of his neck. How  _dare_ Sherlock risk his life tonight and nearly do all that to him again. How could he?

Minutes ago John would have jumped in front of a bullet for this man, but now he just wants to punch his lights out, to hit him until he  _begs_ the word sorry. He scrunches his fists at his sides, tightens his jaw, pulls back and…

_Come on then._

Sherlock braces himself.

“Stop!” Mary’s panicked voice shatters the moment, freezing them both dead in their tracks. She rushes forwards and pushes them apart roughly, back to arm's length, her fingertips pressing on each of their chests. She glares between them.

“Just stop it the pair of you. Look at yourselves.  _Look_. You don’t want this?”

But neither men drop their stances. Their eyes burn into each other. They’re like two animals. The golden lion and the arctic wolf. Both at the top of their food chains, never willing to back down, snarling at each other through gritted teeth. She can practically feel the heat radiating off them.

There’s a moment of silence.

The world may as well have stopped rotating.

“God you’re so in love.” Mary mutters at last.

“I’m sorry?” John scoffs and turns to her, finally breaking eye contact with Sherlock.

“You two. You’re so in love it's ridiculous." Mary mutters. "I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner - didn’t guess.”

The tension collapses.

Sherlock exhales loudly and flops back down into his chair. He's shaking. He closes his eyes. “I am very good at concealing what I don't want to be seen.”

John looks back over to him, breathless. The black curls of his hair have fallen into his eyes. His cheeks are as pale as ice. His lips struggle to retain any colour,  and his chest rises and falls unevenly. The arrogance is gone. Instead, John sees a man who is weak, injured. Exhausted and mentally unstable. He's long fallen over the edge of the clifftop, slipped into the abyss. Maybe he only resorted to drugs because he can't cope with it anymore, with seeing John with someone else. Because the light for him is gone. Because he wanted to make it all disappear. Maybe he only did it because- 

He’s suicidal. Mentally traumatised. Ill. Something John has dealt with intensively himself.

_Oh fuck._

A tear slips out of the corner of Sherlock’s eye. John drops his fists.

“Sherlock,” His voice comes out all wrong, desperate. A new-found guilt gnaws through him, sucking all the air from his chest. He could never have actually beaten Sherlock. He would have stopped after the first punch, wouldn't he? He would have realised the gravity of what he’d done.

He can't be sure.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbles quickly, any remaining anger draining out of him like water. “I wasn't actually going to - you know I would never-”

Sherlock looks away. “Sure.”

Mary grinds down on her teeth, because as much as she is still sore, still bitter and betrayed at everything that’s happened, this is miserable. It’s like she’s watching their friendship drain away through her fingertips, all the memories and the happy moments vanish in front of her, overwritten by  _this_.

She blinks back a fresh wave of tears and swallows loudly. “Look it doesn’t matter now, what happened two years ago, because...you’re right.”

John looks up. “How do you mean?”

“I mean…” She turns to him, choosing her words carefully. “I love you, I really do, and I love Rosie and our family together, but since Sherlock came back you’ve never really been in it one hundred percent, I see that now.”

“Mary,” John looks desperate. “Don’t say that. I have - I was-”

“No don’t lie.” The words sting but they're not supposed to. Mary wipes a tear from her cheek and takes hold of John’s trembling hands. “Look it's... ok.” She shrugs her shoulders and smiles sadly. “It’s ok. This. I think we both know we wouldn’t have lasted anyway, not forever.”

John tries to speak but stumbles over his words. He wants to argue back, to protest that he  _did_ feel for her, once, but nothing comes. His vision starts to blur before him. It feels like everything is collapsing on the inside.

“No shh, shh, I know.” Mary holds out her arms and suddenly they’re around John’s shoulders, holding him, squeezing him, her sweet perfume flooding his senses. He closes his eyes and lets her take the majority of his weight. Everything disappears as he buries his head in her chest and  _finally,_ he allows himself to cry. He cries like a baby.

Sherlock watches warily, feeling quite sure he is going to pass out soon, if not from the drugs come down then from exhaustion. Mary is stroking John’s hair, holding his waist, but this time he doesn’t feel the sharp sting of jealousy he normally does. Because this hug is not like before, not even close. It is not an embrace of lovers, or even the pity of friends. It is just genuine comfort, a release for the both of them. Sherlock takes several steady breaths.

“I’m sorry.” John whispers into Mary’s hair.

“I know.”

“I really am.”

Mary pulls back. She shrugs. “I suppose I'll get over it eventually.”

“But what about Rosie?”

Confusion flickers briefly across Mary's face, and then determination. “We both still love her, don't we? We’ll both still see her and look after her. That's all a child needs.”

“I suppose.” John can’t help stop himself from looking over at Sherlock. Pale as a sheet. Eyelids fluttering. Cheeks damp.

 _Oh god._ His heart sinks. _What have I done?_

They remain in silence for a long while, before Mary runs her hands down John's shoulders a final time and pulls back, looking towards the door. “Well…" She sighs softly. "I guess I should go.”

“Yeah,” John wipes his eyes and sniffs awkwardly, trying to pull himself from his trance and rid himself of the guilt that is sinking heavily through his chest, plaguing him all over. He looks to Sherlock. “I'll see that he’s alright and then…” He frowns, unable to finish the sentence.

“Ok.” Mary nods. “Ok. Maybe we’ll talk tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

She swoops down and grabs her jacket. She can’t believe she’s coming away from this calm, the one with the most self-control out of all of them. She's sure it'll hit her properly later, like a tonne of bricks, but she can't worry about that now. She peers across at Sherlock, who is still not looking at them, still refusing to look anywhere other than the ground.

“Will you be ok? Sherlock?”

“Hm.” Sherlock looks up reluctantly and tries for the faintest of smiles. “I think Mrs Hudson has some Morphine downstairs.” He smiles at Mary’s stunned reaction. “Yes, I’ll be fine.”

Mary nods and takes one last look around the flat. “This is a mess by the way.”

“I know.”

She leans forwards and gives John a final peck on the cheek before turning to go. “I’ll speak with you in the morning.”

He nods.

She starts to walk away, back towards the door, towards and stairs and the empty street. Out into the night alone. It should feel like she’s saying goodbye as she turns away from them, away from all of it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t at all.

 

 

***

 

 

They sit in silence for a long time, slouched in their respective chairs as they listen to her leave. There’s the gentle patter of Mary's feet on the stairs, the bang of the door and the murmur of awkward small talk as she collects Rosie from Mrs Hudson. John has to strain to hear, but just as she reaches the front door he thinks he hears her pause, a final moment of acceptance maybe, a goodbye, and then at last, the door bangs shut.

Gone.

Sherlock sighs and drops Mycroft a quick text.

_Mary is leaving. Arrange a car to pick her and Rosie up, will you?_

The phone sounds as the message sends and he drops it into his lap. The world is quiet around them. It seems after everything, after so much talking and arguing and crying, so many intense emotions, neither of them really know what to say. John feels drained beyond belief. 

“You were going to hit me.” Sherlock whispers eventually.

John rubs at his temples. “And you were going to let me.”

The silence is deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE COMFORT BEGINS.  
> Ok so what did you think of that? I am very nervous it was truly awful but hopefully you disagree. Thank you so much for reading. I'll try make sure it's not quite so long until I next update.  
> Many thanks must go to Kate (bigblueboxat221b), who has been an excellent beta and helped me everytime I was having a crisis about the plot. I would also like to thank everyone on Instagram for their wonderful support and encouragement. I probably wouldn't have made it this far into the story if it wasn't for you.


	9. The promise of redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all that they've been through, there can't be more to discover, can there?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. First of all, of course I have to apologise for the ridiculously massive delay on this chapter. There's no excuse for it really, and reading back over the comments I feel like I've let you all down. I am so sorry. You're probably not even interested in this story anymore, but I couldn't leave it unfinished and I couldn't let you all down permanently. Please forgive me, I'm very grateful for all your support and do appreciate it so much. I suppose the reason I stopped was because I got stuck, insecure, ran out of momentum, was busy irl (with exams) and just stopped writing altogether. I sat there for so many nights and tried, I really did, but nothing came until now. I hope you can forgive me. I will try my very best to keep the next few updates somewhat regular. 
> 
> All my apologies, 
> 
> Em x
> 
> (Don't forget the [playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1128856992/playlist/7CzhAXNhbsWbhKPgU26ZVZ))

Sherlock is the first one to speak and break the stillness.

“Sleep.” He mumbles, almost deliriously. “I need sleep.”

“Me too.”

With great effort John pushes up from the chair and stands, ignoring the fact that his arms and legs strain underneath him. He pauses awkwardly and runs his fingers through his hair, catching Sherlock’s eye. “Do you err...need me to…?” He offers his hands into the empty space between them.

“Um,” Sherlock hesitates for a moment. His vision is still a bit hazy at the edges, and his mind blurs as it struggles to patch together all the options. It is unlikely he is going to be able to stand and walk to the bedroom on his own so...

His gaze fixates on the sight of John’s open palms in front of him, the honey-coloured skin, smooth and firm. Soldier’s hands.

Hands that nearly swung forward and connected with his jaw.

A sudden tightness forms in his throat.

“I’ll think I’ll be fine.” He mumbles, looking away.

“Really?” John raises his eyebrows.

There’s a telling silence, and after a moment John steps forward. He tries for a small smile. Eager to help. Trying to put everything behind them. “It’s fine, Sherlock.” He says lightly. “I don’t mind.”

“I know it's...not that.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand in John’s direction and takes a deep breath. Without further hesitation he flattens his palms on the edges of the chair and forces himself upwards. Quick enough that John isn’t able to stop him.

“Hey Sherlock, woah - I can help!”

Sherlock sways and staggers as he rises upwards. Every muscle in his body screams at him to stop. His vision blurs over once more. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John moving towards him, reaching out to steady his shoulder. His palm is about to make contact with his skin and-

“Don’t!” The touch almost makes Sherlock recoil; like a slap in the face. His voice comes out desperate and helpless. “Please, don’t touch me.”

“Oh.” John drops his arm instantly, a fresh wave of hurt flickering in his eyes; genuine sorrow. He steps back. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to spook you-”  

“No, no it’s… fine.” Sherlock blinks rapidly, scared by his own reaction to such an innocent gesture. He bites his lip and tries to compose himself, gripping the edges of the chair harder and breathing heavily. “You didn’t spook me. I just don’t feel…” He bites his tongue _._ “I mean I can get there on my own, ok?”

“Sure?” John looks him up and down warily. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Sherlock takes a very cautious step forward. “Yes.”

“Do you feel sick?”

Another step. “Yes.”

“Are you in pain?”

Sherlock stops moving and makes a face. “Of course I am, John. Stop asking me stupid questions.”

The army doctor looks like he’s been slapped. “Sorry...I'll...I’ll stop talking now.”

They take a few more slow, steady steps towards the hallway.

“Maybe we should go back to the hospital.”

“Oh for god’s _sake_ ,” Sherlock stops and steadies himself on the doorway, panting heavily. There’s just something in the irony of it. He _almost_ laughs.

John looks confused. “What?”

“I'd just forgotten what it's like to have you worrying about me all the time.”

They look at each other for a long moment, before John turns away and pushes Sherlock’s bedroom door open for him, flicking on the light.

They stumble through. The detective’s room is not quite as untidy as the rest of the flat. There are only a few stray shirts crumpled on the floor, an unmade bed and - John scans the surfaces carefully - the dresser and bedside table are clear. No needles.

“Do you need to change?” He asks gently.

Sherlock flops down onto the bed and closes his eyes, still breathless. He pulls a pillow over his head to block out the light and lets out a long groan in response to John’s question. “I do but I…” He takes several deep breaths. “I’m too exhausted.”

“Hmm,” John looks pensive. He can see the sweat patches dampening the back of Sherlock’s shirt. The trouser seams straining because of his position. His belt. “It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“Alright fine,” Sherlock snaps out of nowhere, instantly exasperated. He rolls over. “I’ll change. Whatever you want.”

“No Sherlock,” John stutters, backtracking, his mouth falling open slightly. “It doesn’t matter what I want? That’s not what I-”

But Sherlock has already tossed the pillow to one side and moved to start undoing his shirt buttons, his head propped up awkwardly against the headboard. John watches as he concentrates intently on the movement of his fingers, clearly finding it difficult.

John hesitates. “Do you-”

“My pyjamas are in the second draw down.”

“Oh… right.” He turns to the oak dresser beside him and crouches awkwardly. “Second draw down…” He slides it open and pulls out some soft burgundy trousers and a matching shirt. “These ok?”

Sherlock’s voice comes from over his shoulder. “Fine.”

John turns. He is about to step forward and pass over the clothes but-

“Oh,”

In the second his back has been turned Sherlock has shuffled upwards and propped himself up higher on the bed. He’s nearly undone all the buttons on his shirt; leaving it to slip down from the pale rounds of his shoulders. His belt buckle is unfastened too, revealing a fraction of hip and the grey rim of his boxers. He looks like a terribly exhausted, party undressed, dishevelled mess, but something about it makes John’s chest jump.

He blushes and tosses the clothes in Sherlock’s direction, turning away slightly, his cheeks unexpectedly hot.

“What?”

Sherlock sounds defensive.

“Nothing. I just,” John tries to compose himself and blinks. He needs to get a grip. “I’ve just never seen you topless like that before, that’s all.”

“Yes you have?”

“Well... err, yes but,” John squints, struggling to explain why he’s suddenly so embarrassed when he doesn’t even understand himself. “I haven't seen you like _this_ , not in this… context, and now that you know… things are different.”

“Humph,” Sherlock stares him down at himself, not bothered. “Well you can leave if you want.”

“No,” John narrows his eyebrows and sighs. “That’s not what I meant…” He drags his gaze from the floor and looks Sherlock directly in the eyes, defeated. “I want to help.”

"Fine.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and twists his shirt out from beneath him. He hands it to John - wincing - before mustering the effort needed to shuffle out of his trousers. John moves round to his bedside, and the room is silent except for the sounds of the sheets rustling and the fabric scaping as Sherlock pulls it from his ankles. A section of trouser gets caught on Sherlock’s toe. Without thinking he bends forward to remove it and-

“Sherlock.” John’s voice interrupts his actions, low and dangerous. Filled with quiet agony. Pain. “What is that?”

For a millisecond Sherlock’s mind struggles, _what is what…_

“Are those... _scars_?” John breathes suddenly, completely stunned. “On your back?”

_Fuck._

Something inside Sherlock collapses. The final foundation. He forgot. In all the exhaustion and the arguments, he forgot about the scars on his fucking back - and more importantly that John was still yet to see them. It's a secret he’s managed to hide for nearly two years, and it has come to light now. In this moment. Brilliant.

He drops backwards and closes his eyes. _Oh fuck._

“Sherlock?!” John sounds desperate now. “Did you hear what I just said? Those were scars on your back, weren't they?”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, and he focuses on the ceiling, his voice dull. “Clearly you need a moment to process this so I’m just going to let you-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” John demands, nearly shouts in fact, still standing beside the bed. His hands have curled into tight fists.

Sherlock takes a breath. “I didn’t think-”

“Is that what they did to you while you were away?!”

“Yes.”

“While I thought you were dead?”

“Yes.”

John bends over and grips the bed, his head sagging between his shoulders. Clearly experiencing a fresh breakdown. “You were…” he can hardly say the word. “...tortured?”

Sherlock nods.

“Christ,” John gasps and steps back. It’s like his world has turned upside down around him. He can’t stay upright. “Fuck, Sherlock I - what the hell?”

“Like I said,” The detective whispers slowly. “Not a holiday.”

“Jesus.” John straightens up and runs his hands through his hair. He goes to move somewhere - anywhere - but then falters. Who knew he could feel this much guilt? It’s as if there's someone pouring it over him, letting it sink into his skin; staining his insides with ash.

“My. God.” He shuts his eyes as the feeling sweeps through him, overpowering his body, his mind, _everything_.

“John...”

The army doctor staggers. There is a danger his knees are going to give way beneath him. He reaches out to support himself on the dresser.

“John.”

Sherlock is saying his name again, his voice resonating faintly in his ears. Sharper. Rising in volume.

 "John!”

 John suddenly feels a panicked hand on his arm. The dizziness contracts. He comes crashing back to reality. His breath is coming out in short, sharp, gasps.

 “It's fine, John,” Sherlock stresses, “It’s...”

 John opens his eyes to see his friend sitting up helplessly, eyes wide, completely at loss for what to do.

 “I don't know…” Sherlock tries, looking around hopelessly as if someone might pop out of nowhere and help him. “Maybe… sit down? Or something? Is that what people do?”

 John takes several deep breaths. After a moment he finally gives in and drops down beside Sherlock on the bed, defeated.  

 “Yes,” He replies. “That is what people normally do-” He tries hard to focus on his breathing. Fighting for control over his breath. “During a panic attack.”

 “Oh,” Sherlock finishes.

 They both fall speechless. Time creeps past.

 John’s heart pounds beneath his ribcage. He can feel his pulse thumping in his neck, marking time.

 One…. two…

 A car engine rumbles outside on the street below. Sirens wail faintly in the distance. For the first time, John notices the daylight peeping through the curtains. Mid-morning. It’s hard to believe there are people out there going about their normal lives. Eating, commuting, working...while in here everything John knows seems to be falling apart.

Ten.... eleven...

“I just...I had no idea.” He mumbles after a while, staring numbly into the distance.

Sherlock hunches his feet to give John more room on the mattress. They both sit in another long, stale silence.

“You’re in shock.” The detective says quietly.

“Yes.”

John sniffs. His mouth does indeed feel very dry. He wets his lips. Blinks. Twiddles his hands noiselessly in his lap. Whole minutes pass.

_How did he miss this?_

_What else is there that he still does not know?_

“Could I… possibly…err, see again?” He asks.

For a second Sherlock looks very tense, naturally defensive, but after a moment his expression changes to one of apathy. Too tired to care about the details, John guesses. Too fed up to care.

He sits up carefully and turns so his back is facing John, his knees still hunched defensively to his chest. John hears him let out a shaky breath.

“Jesus…” John’s face crumbles as his gaze falls across the array of jagged red scars and marks that cover Sherlock’s pale back. There are thin pink lines, straight ones from whips. Damaged skin where the wounds haven't quite healed properly, faded but still crimson and sore in places. In fact, some scars are so severe that John is certain they would have needed hospital treatment. He traces his fingers over a particularly prominent purple line. Sherlock flinches beneath him.

“Did you go to hospital for this?”

“Yes. I had stitches in several places and they bandaged some of it up. Mycroft was there. It was… fine.”

“Mycroft?” John drops his hand.

“Yes.. It was he who insisted I go. He did get me out, after all.”

“Out of where?”

“Of Serbia. He finally intervened and prevented me from being tortured to the point of execution. Still, it took him long enough though, as is now _fairly_ transparent.”

“Right…” John sits and processes this information for a while; blood still running in fierce laps around his brain. Still, questions haunt him.

_How did he not guess? How could he not notice?_

“I'm so sorry.” He whispers eventually.

“It's fine.” Sherlock replies flatly.

“It's not though, is it?” John looks at the scars again: hundreds of small red marks, evidence of weeks of torture and humiliation. “You went through so much, and I sat here, in bloody England, doing… well doing fucking nothing!” he shakes his head and rubs his eyes to stop a fresh wave of tears from filling them. “I wish I'd known, Sherlock. I really do. I could have helped you. I could have done something. Why didn't you tell me?”

Sherlock shuffles and turns so that they’re facing each other, his expression solemn. He’s trying hard. “I didn't tell you because I couldn't, or Moriarty’s snipers would have shot you right there and then, on the tarmac at Bart’s, or soon afterwards, or even before if they suspected you knew the game. It was all worked out, John. A fake suicide was the _only_ possible exit to Moriarty’s web of lies, his...weapons of destruction. There was no other way, honestly-”

John closes his eyes. After a moment he nods and takes a deep breath. “Okay. I know that now. I get it. But why didn't you tell me about… _this_? About the scars and the…” he gulps. “...Torture. Afterwards, I mean.”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes widen dramatically. “Why _would_ I tell you? What would have been the point? I’d already caused you enough grief, John. I realised that as soon as I came back - how badly I’d miscalculated everything. The scale of damage I’d done. And after everything, I survived. That was it. As soon as I saw you I just wanted to forget about it. I wanted to pretend it never happened.”

“But when... I...” John can’t stop himself from running back over everything in his mind, back to the day at the restaurant, when they saw each other again. “I... I hit you...I pushed you to the ground and… on your back…that must have been excruciating.”

The corners of Sherlock's mouth curl up, ever so faintly. Wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah. That wasn’t exactly the welcome I was expecting, but you weren’t to know and-” he takes a breath. “Perhaps… there is a small chance I did deserve it.”

“No Sherlock, actually-”

“No-” Sherlock raises his voice slightly to cut John off. “I shouldn't have kept you in the dark. Not for so long. After about a year it would have been safe to make contact, maybe. I just thought it would be easier - simpler somehow. You would have come after me. I really didn't realise how much it would affect…” he makes a vague gesture with his hands. “This… us, _you.”_ He tries for a faint smile, an awkward laugh. “I was never very good at judging these matters.”

“No…” Despite himself, John finds that he’s smiling back, a gentle, genuine smile; and just like that it's as if a heaviness is being lifted from his shoulders. A pressure released from his ribcage. He can _breathe_ properly again. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“John… I’ve been meaning to say…I...”

“Oh god,” John drops his head into his hands, suddenly overcome. A new emotion passes through his system, unexpected and irrepressible. His cheeks burn hot. A fresh load of tears brim in his eyes. He tries to wipe them away quickly.

“Wait? Are you upset?” Sherlock leans forward, once again panicked. “John? Did I upset you?!”

“Yes,” John laughs half-heartedly. “You did but not in a bad way.” He rubs his eyes and tries to compose himself for a moment. “I just can't believe this is all over. Everything we’ve been through. All the arguments, the grief, Mary and now...I just can’t believe we’re finally out the other side. We can start again.”

“So those are…” Sherlock looks baffled, his eyebrows narrowed, pupils darting, curls flopping in his eyes. “Happy tears now?”

“Yeah...“ John sniffs, “Something like that.” He tries for a shy grin and wipes his cheek.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face softens and he smiles carefully, searching the other man’s face.

A long moment passes, and in that time a newfound calm seems to fall over them; a pause, but not one filled with grief and anger like before. Slowly, they start to come to terms with the situation around them. It’s a quiet acceptance. A steady retreat. Relief. At last.

John is still staring into Sherlock’s eyes, lost, when he realises the detective is slowly lifting his hand into the space between them, his palm trembling, hesitating in mid-air. John finds himself holding his breath and-

Sherlock moves forward and wipes the final tear from John’s cheek.

They're both stunned by the gesture.

“Sorry.” Sherlock breathes.

“No, no it's… fine.”

“I just wanted to… touch and I…”

John watches silently as Sherlock folds his hands back in his lap. He nods. “That's okay. I…liked it.”

“Really?” A timid expression creeps across Sherlock’s face.

“Mmm,” he hums softly. “You can do it again if you like.”

Spurred on by this encouragement, Sherlock reaches out once more and slowly cups John's cheek with his palm. His fingertips come to rest just before the other man’s ear. Skin against his skin. John is completely still beneath him.

“Is this… acceptable?” Sherlock asks, barely daring to breathe.

“Yes,” John whispers, not wanting to move an inch, for the touch is so gentle, so fragile that he feels like any sudden movement might shatter it. He leans closer, and it occurs to him that he can't remember feeling like this with anyone before. So vulnerable in this moment. So entirely in someone else's hands.

Sherlock's dark eyes bore into his. The nerves start building on the inside. His breathing is quickening. Hairs are standing up straight on his back. He tries to calm himself by focusing on the physical sensations around him - the feel of Sherlock's breath fluttering across his face, his lips. The crinkled sheets beneath him. Sherlock’s hand resting on his jaw, his palm soft against his cheek; warm too, not pale and cold like it was the first time he touched it. A heated feeling starts to settle in his stomach. His pulse thumps. They're _still_ staring at each other. Pupils melting. Growing softer and softer by the second.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice sounds meeker than a child's. “Would it be alright if we-”

“Shh,” John reaches out and presses a finger against Sherlock’s lips. “The answer is yes.” And with that he finally leans in and closes the gap between them. His hands slide into Sherlock's hair. Their eyes close automatically.

It’s like the flutter of leaves on an autumn day. The sweet melody of a long-forgotten song. Everything falls into place.

The kiss is delicate and slow. Just how John’s always wanted it to be. Their movements are so much softer than before. There is no longer the aching desperation the was felt in the drug den; the formidable sadness from the hospital; the attempt to savour every last sensation because they weren't sure they’d be lucky enough to experience it again.

Sherlock makes a muffled sound that resembles a moan. The position holds for a few more tender seconds, and then Sherlock starts to move back against John’s lips. Braver this time, bolder, he uses his jaw and tongue to deepen the embrace further, exploring, tasting. Pushing for something he’s never had.

“Oh...Sherlock...”

The rest of the room starts to fade around them. John’s head spins, his thoughts spiralling in all directions. It feels as if they’re slowly slipping from the real world. Losing sense of time and reality; falling into unknown territory.

The kiss deepens further. Time starts to speed up a bit. The energy rising as a searing and uncontrollable desire begins to take hold. It’s like a switch has flicked. They start to move against each other; pushing, pulling. Sherlock’s hand grips John’s hair and-

“Fuck,” John pulls back abruptly, breathless.  “Sherlock… that's…” but he doesn't have a chance to finish, because all of a sudden Sherlock's lips are on his again. Needy. Urgent. Hot and heavy. John puts his hand on Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock starts fumbling at the buttons on John’s shirt. Desperate.

It’s like nothing John’s experienced before. To be with someone like this, to feel them so intimately. It's not like Mary, not like any of the girlfriends he’s had previously. There's just something else with Sherlock. Proper chemistry. A connection. A fuse that’s been waiting to blow. It's as if there's electricity between them, pulling them together. Two stones striking for a spark.

“God...John…”

He feels completely lost in it all.

John’s body starts moving on its own accord. He grabs the rounds of Sherlock’s shoulders and pushes him back against the headboard. Advances on top. They kiss again. Sherlock moans. John shifts his thighs and straddles him. He is certain now that the detective must be able to feel his erection through his trousers, bone hard and pushing up against his thigh. He doesn't try and hide it.

Is this what he wants? Now? So soon?

Is this what _Sherlock_ wants?

If not he doesn't say. Their movements are still quickening, and they start to form a sort of rhythm, rutting against each other. Sherlock arching upwards and John grinding him back down into the sheets, a series of moans forming the backbeat.

“Oh god, John. Oh fuck.”

Sherlock starts moaning relentlessly into John’s mouth. Babbling. His eyes closed and fluttering. His breathing is shallow. Movements unpracticed.

Who knew such a fierce detective would come apart like this?

Who knew that one day he would actually be John’s? To hold? To keep?

How did they get _here_?

Still, John cannot believe it, even though it is currently happening to him _right now_. He is no longer thinking about his actions. His willpower too weak to even bother trying to set the moral compass straight. They've both given up trying to resist what is obviously about to happen, even though it is definitely too soon.

It’s indulgent. It’s ridiculous. He’s technically still _married_.

“John…”

But right now it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.

John props himself up on his elbows and leans down to start devouring Sherlock’s neck; feeling oddly pleased with himself when the detective starts to whimper and shake beneath him.

He sucks in red marks. Hard enough they’ll last. He bites and teases, relishing the way Sherlock seems to respond to the movements of his tongue.

“Please John, oh...god…”

Sherlock tilts his head back and lets out a low groan, and in that moment it strikes John just how beautiful he is. This man in front of him. Moaning just because of him. Making noises he wouldn’t dare let anybody else hear. He could be an artwork for god’s sake, his body a statue in a museum. Skin the colour of cream, a mop of black curls and muscles in all the right places. Collarbones, hips, angles, and yet an arse plush enough to hold onto, lips plump enough to kiss and pull down his teeth. Piercing eyes. Cheekbones. And his _mind_ , well that's another subject entirely. John can’t even comprehend it.

How on earth did he get this lucky?

John’s shirt has now joined Sherlock’s on the floor. The moaning accelerates. Everything shifts into a higher gear. Sherlock’s hair keeps falling into his eyes. John notices at some point that they are both shaking, grasping at each other feverishly, almost childishly. Desperate to feel every inch. Experience every sensation.

Sherlock shifts underneath him, and the feel of his hard cock against John’s thigh sends sparks flying in all directions through his body. He lets out an unexpected gasp, his hand instinctively fumbling for the buttons on the other man’s trousers, the rim of his boxers.

“Sherlock,” He gasps, his voice just as much of a mess as his actions. “Is this alright? Is this what you want?”

"Yes,” Sherlock pants.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Fucking_ -” Sherlock groans loudly as John dips a hand under his boxers and wraps his palm around his cock before beginning to stroke, his hand moving in slow, precise movements. “Positive.”

They kiss again. More ruthlessly this time. Sherlock sounds like his mind is about to implode. John’s never seen him respond his actions so strongly. So _loudly_.

John’s hand slides up and down Sherlock’s length easily, already slick with precome. After a minute he can sense that Sherlock is already getting close. Struggling to hold out. His back arching up towards John’s body, trying to get more friction by thrusting into his hand. It's so primal. Instinctive.

“John,” Sherlock gasps between kisses. “I’m not sure I can - oh god - I don't want to go too soon, or-” he grasps for John’s trousers, and the army doctor moves so he can get to them. Sherlock undoes the button and starts frantically pushing the fabric down around his thighs.

“Here Sherlock, wait-” John gently pushes Sherlock's hands away and nudges down his boxers. He takes his own cock into hand and sighs softly, before moving forward and taking Sherlock’s too, holding them together in his hands. There is no problem with friction, they’re both wet with precome. He starts to move.

“Is that…better?”

“Yes,” Sherlock's eyes roll back as John starts to stroke them both now, cocks rubbing against each other. It’s almost too much. “Oh god yes.”

“Sorry,” John stutters in between pants, “I'm not really sure what I'm doing but-” he moans as Sherlock leans up and kisses him again. “You will say if it's too much?”

“Yes,” Sherlock is practically begging now, “I will but this is…good. I promise.”

There's something about Sherlock saying the word promise that makes John feel very warm inside. He tries to stop focusing so hard. To stop panicking and overthinking everything. Besides, now that his cock is finally getting some attention, he's nearly there too.  

“John…” Sherlock sounds helpless now. “I’m sorry I can’t hold on much longer. I can’t. This is just-”

“No, shh, shh.” John dips down and plants a particularly heated kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “You don’t have to hold on any longer love, you can go, I’m nearly there.”

“Uh,” Sherlock drapes his arms around John’s neck. “Really?”

“Yes…” John can feel himself nearing the edge, walking the tightrope. It feels so good...they’ve waited so long…

“Oh fuck, Sherlock.” John gasps as he starts to tease the build-up, his mind awash with dizziness. His hand speeds up on its own accord. “Come now, I’m gonna-”

“Uh, god-” Sherlock doesn’t need to be told twice, and with that he lets go, shuddering as the feeling overtakes him, knocking him sideways. They both tense, the release draining whatever energy they had left.

A rush of endorphins flood Sherlock’s senses. His brain. It’s a fresh high. A temporary conversion to technicolour. Everything feels hazy.

“Oh…” John exhales as a familiar sticky liquid splatters across his hands, their bare chests. The world seems to shudder and shake around him as the final shockwaves ripple through. He’s breathing hard.

“God...” He waits a second before rolling off, flopping down into the mattress. They lie beside each other wordlessly, chests heaving, catching their breath.

“That was…” John struggles for a moment before deciding that words couldn’t possibly describe it. He stares at the ceiling, blinking, trying to take everything in. He tilts his head to the side to confirm that Sherlock is doing the same - which he is. Slowly their breathing dies down and they lay silently.

“Hm,” Sherlock gives an awkward laugh, the first to break the silence. “This is…” he looks down at his chest. “Unpleasant.”

“Mmm,” John agrees, twitching his sticky hand. “I’ll get us tissues.”

“Sure?”

“Course.”

He pushes up and trudges to the bathroom, returning promptly with enough paper for both of them. They clean up quickly. Sherlock tosses the tissues in the direction of the bin and flops back down into the pillow, exhausting hitting him with the same enormity as the discovery of gravity. John hesitates, still stood.

“I suppose I should…go...” He looks towards the door.

“What?” Sherlock follows his gaze. “No. Stay. I don’t mind.”

“But…” John can feel his moral compass wavering. “It’s so soon to be...sleeping here and-”

“Hah,” Sherlock snorts. “It’s a bit late for that.”

John makes a face.

“Just for now then,” Sherlock revises. “You stay just for now. Please.”

“Hm,” John hums. The offer is tempting. He is far too tired to consider booking a hotel, or even making the journey up the stairs to his old bedroom. But what will people think? What will _Mary_ think? For them to be together like this…so soon....

“Please.” Sherlock repeats into the stillness. “I need you.”

John sinks down into the bed.

Still only in his boxers, he reaches for the covers and pulls them up to his chest before shuffling up to Sherlock’s side. Body against body. Skin against skin. He slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist, exhaling softly before planting a nervous kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. Still, everything feels so foreign, every gesture and movement. It’s all so precious. So fragile. He wants to savour it, relish in it. Every second there is. Play it back and watch it over a million times.

“Is this better?” he breathes.

“Yes.” Sherlock whispers.

The clock clicks steadily above them. John stares up at the plain white ceiling. Exhaustion really isn’t the right word. His head throbs and his muscles ache. His eyes are already shutting on him, his body falling limp as it’s finally allowed sleep. It's still hard to believe this is actually over, that they've made it this far.

After a minute his eyelids start drooping. Sherlock’s breathing slows beside him, starting to even out. It's no surprise really, John thinks, they're both on the brink of exhaustion.  

Images flash before him as he starts to slip away, like they always seem to before sleep, but this time they’re much more vivid. His brain's attempt to order adrenaline fuelled memories. Playing them back in snapshots. First he sees Sherlock in the drug den, cold and pale - white - covered in sweat. Blue lips. The way he moved, cried out in pain, the mention of Moriarty. Then there's Mycroft in the ambulance, tugging at his shirt collar, on the verge of a mental breakdown.  The perspiration in the oxygen mask. The hospital room. The kiss. The confession. The salt in his tears. Anger. Panic. The cab, the orange sunrise. Baker Street. The way Mary first looked when she walked through the door. How pleased she was to see him, and then how bitterly disappointed. The feel of his own curled fists. Being so choked up he couldn’t speak. The purple scars on Sherlock’s back. The sex, the _moans_ , now this and-

“Shh,” Sherlock unexpectedly moves in the darkness and takes his hand. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m not – I -” John can hardly speak.

Sherlock squeezes his fingers. “Tell me?”

“It’s just-" John takes a breath. "We’ll be fine now, won’t we?" He tries not to let the insecurity creep into his voice. “Us?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Sherlock turns. He snuggles closer and rests his chin on John’s shoulder. “Fine? I would have thought we’ll be better than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what did you think of that? I'd love to know, good or bad. I hope it made up for the hiatus a bit. Much more comfort is to come.
> 
> Once again thank you. I'm not in a great place right now and sometimes your support is literally what keeps my writing going. <3 I can't wait to see what you thought!


	10. I've missed you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry it's taken me forever again to update this. All I can say is I really hope you enjoy it. I worked really hard on it. If you are an old time reader thank you so much for sticking with me and this story, you have an amazing amount of patience and dedication to the Johnlock. I salute you.

Mary lies still.

The sheets around her are like ghosts. Too cold, too empty. There's not enough folds and creases. No pockets of warm air.

But they still smell like him. The pillow beside her is sunken to the shape of his head.

She stares numbly at the ceiling. If she tried hard enough, she could probably convince herself that John was simply in the bathroom right now, just brushing his teeth before bed.

She pictures light underneath the doorframe, him standing in front of the mirror, hands braced against the sink; those dark eyes staring back at his own reflection. Motionless. Stagnant.

He did that a lot.  
  
It’s only now that she has an idea of why. He wasn’t happy. He was thinking, missing someone. Again, she wonders how she was so blind.  
  
_One word, Sherlock, that’s all I would have needed. One word to let me know you were alive._  
  
Self-loathing tugs at her, nibbling away at her thoughts. Why wasn’t she good enough for John? Was she not interesting enough? Not smart enough? Not arrogant enough? Or was she too much of all those things?  
  
Perhaps Sherlock simply got there first?  
  
She sighs and closes her eyes. There’s not really much point in trying to sleep, but after getting in and putting Rosie to bed, she didn’t know what else to do. It’s nearly 9 am now, and normally she’d be in the kitchen making John his breakfast. She’d be giving him that extra bit of honey on his toast, asking him what time his shift ends, kissing him goodbye at the door.  
  
But now her routine has crumbled apart.  
  
John isn’t here.  
  
He’s gone.  
  
She doesn’t know what to do.

 

 

  
  
***

 

 

  
  
Sherlock sleeps for what feels like an eternity.  
  
He doesn't dream, hardly shifts or makes a sound. It's like his body has switched off; his mind gone blank. For the first time in what must be months, no dreams penetrate his thoughts.  
  
It's stillness. Recovery. Empty space.  
  
At last.  
  
The only sign of life is the soft flutter of his breathing, the occasional twitch of a finger. His limbs lie heavily against the bedsheets. His face is squished into the pillow. The world around him is restful, calm.  
  
But there’s something else.  
  
Something else infiltrates his senses. Something unusual yet familiar, a smell he’s had documented deep in his mind palace for several years. A smell he wouldn't mistake for anything in the world.  
  
The smell of John.  
  
It’s a mix of aftershave and hair product. A sort of musk that reminds Sherlock distinctively of knitted jumpers and cooked dinners; of all the times John’s been close. Leant over his shoulder or embraced him in a rare hug. It smells of home.

As he comes to his senses he realises it’s not only the smell of John he notices but the heat of his body. He can feel it beside him. Gentle movement. Regular breathing. The heaving of his chest. It’s hard to believe he’s still there, inches away from Sherlock’s body; that everything that happened last night was _real_.

He exhales softly.

John’s presence. It's like a blanket that smooths everything out, a dressing to heal his wounds. Calm him down. He feels _safe_.

Without so much as opening his eyes, Sherlock drifts back to sleep.

 

  
  
***

 

  
  
  
White noise rings out into the silence. Specs of something that feels like dust drift over John’s face. Splintering in his eyes. Drying out his mouth. It tastes of dirt.  
  
“Watson!”  
  
The voice echoes in his ears several times. Everything shakes. Trembles. He tries to open his eyes but when he does the world is sideways, an endless stretch of orange sand. There’s figures running in the distance. Blurred, wavering. Dressed in light camouflage gear. Sounds come rushing back to him quickly, much faster than his vision. Gunshots.  
  
“I’m coming!”  
  
He tries to sit up but pain shoots through his left shoulder, his chest, and insufferable sting. He cries out. His helmet is choking him.  
  
“Help…”  
  
But the words are nothing more than a dry rasp. Drowned out by the sounds of gunfire, and then-  
  
“Oh, Jesus. Man down.”  
  
The crackle of a radio. Incessant beeping. Someone’s hand on his shoulder. A face comes into vision, twisting and hazy. Shaved blonde hair.  
  
“John…”  
  
Focus sharpens on the corner of his face; on pale, blue eyes. Darting with panic. Sholto.  
  
“…you’ve been shot.”  
  
At that very moment everything evaporates into puddles of colour, and the surroundings shift; moving without order or rhythm. The colours pool into an uncategorised mess. Swirls of noise. Voices. Ground suddenly forms beneath his feet. He’s in the army tent headquarters, a month earlier. The walls are formed of faded orange fabric. John doesn’t remember how he got here.  
  
“Come here, Watson.”  
  
The atmosphere is tense, cold. A lamp swings monotonously from a pole above, sloshing him in pale, dim light. John steps forward.  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
“I have been informed of some…activities between you and a fellow soldier that are not appropriate.” The man takes off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt. It’s only now it becomes clear he’s talking to the unit Major. A burly man of six foot with a history of being exceptionally brutal to soldiers who step out of line. Everyone’s scared of him.  
  
“Oh?” John’s teeth accidentally sink into his lower lip.  
  
“Don't play the innocent with me, boy. I think you know exactly what I am talking about.” The man straightens up and squares his shoulders. “Intimate relationships of any kind between soldiers are prohibited, especially what has been reported in your case.” He frowns, his face curling up in repulsion. “It’s… _disgusting_.”  
  
John’s heart sinks to the very bottom of his chest. It suddenly feels like he might be sick.  
  
“It is to continue no longer, understood?”  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
“Or you will be dismissed. Immediately. ”  
  
“Yes sir.”  
  
The picture melts before him. A sticky liquid that reminds him of paint seems to cover his body. Bubbling. Spreading. He gasps. Tries to escape-  
  
He wakes with a start, breathing heavily. Sweating all over.  
  
The sheets are not his own. The light is unusual. It’s too orange, too bright for his room. The surroundings are different. A sinking feeling seeps through his chest.  
  
_Disgusting_.  
  
He opens his eyes properly and sits up, rubbing his head.  
  
Of course. Sherlock’s bedroom. The realisation of the last 48 hours hits him like a blow to the head. He takes a deep breath. Orange light filters through the blinds. It’s early evening. They must have slept through the day.  
  
He blinks.  
  
To his relief, Sherlock’s slumbering body is still beside him. Naked and wrapped in the bedsheets, the curve of his figure poking out between the covers.  
  
He leans over slightly to get a better look at Sherlock’s face, but the detective seems to be fast asleep. He breathes softly, his hair covering his eyes.  
  
At least he doesn’t look quite so pale, John thinks.  
  
Deciding it is best to leave him be, John pushes up from the bed and puts his boxers on, before wandering through to the kitchen; trying to wipe the sleepy dust from corners of his eyes. It’s been a long time since either of them ate anything and his stomach is rumbling to prove it. Tea and toast, he thinks, that will do nicely.

He picks his way through the mess on the floor and makes it to the fridge. To his surprise, inside there is butter, and once he’s picked off the tiniest bits of mould from the corners, enough bread for both of them. He pops it in the toaster and clicks the kettle, leaning against the counter as it comes to boil.  
  
He looks around, past the kitchen and their chairs to the fireplace and the window, listening to the faint hum of central London rush hour beyond. It’s so weird being back here, already slipping into his old routine.  
  
The kettle steams. He makes the tea and butters the toast before propping the plate in the crook of his elbow and carrying it through.  
  
Sherlock stirs as he enters.  
  
“Hey,” John murmurs softly. “Look who’s awake.”

 

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

  
Mycroft presses his hands down flat on the counter, scanning the shelves of medicines and tablets as he waits.  
  
The pharmacy is quiet around him, and for that he is grateful. He needs the peace now more than ever, and he’s always particularly wary of the press in times like these. After all, there's only so much he can control.

It’s late afternoon. He went home earlier and tried to sleep while he hoped Sherlock would be but didn’t manage it. Not with everything whirring around in his head. This problem. He needs a solution.

After a moment, a door opens and a doctor arrives. He’s pleased to see that it's Claire, a tall woman with blonde hair and sympathetic smile. They've discussed Sherlock’s case many times before.

“Mr Holmes, hello again.” Her voice is soft, her lips more pursed than usual. Mycroft senses she’s already read the files.

“Would you like to have this conversation in a private consultation room?”

He nods gingerly.

They walk along a corridor and through to a room with plain blue walls and distasteful cream curtains. Claire shuts the door behind them and beckons for Mycroft to sit, which he does, slumping into the chair a little more than perhaps is normal.

“So,” She begins, “We’ve had another one, have we?”

Mycroft nods again and rearranges his hands in his lap. He feels completely numb. Unable to find the words to speak.

“Ok.” Claire tucks a section of hair behind her ear and gathers up her papers on the desk. “And what I understand from the notes the hospital transferred me is that this time was very serious.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s voice almost wobbles. He struggles to look her in the eye.

“So he was recovered in Croydon at roughly 3 am, picked up by an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital, but at 5.30 this morning, when he had only been there for a few hours, he… got up and discharged himself?”

“That’s correct.”

There's a pause. Mycroft senses Claire’s bewilderment.

“I know.” he explains, “It was not exactly ideal but, there were some personal circumstances that did justify that decision.”

This information lingers in the air for a moment.

“So he will be coming back into hospital?”

Mycroft shakes his head.

“Right, but you do understand that after any overdose, especially one of this severity, we would normally expect to keep a patient in for a few days at the very least.”

“Of course, but he won't do it.” Mycroft feels his fists start to curl involuntarily in his lap. “You know how he is, Claire. They’ll be no persuading him. There just won't.”

“No?”

“No.”

Claire reviews her notes again.

“There are… other options.”

“Such as?”

“Rehabilitation centres.”

“Hah,” Mycroft actually snorts. “Absolutely not. We’ve discussed this before. He would never go.”

Claire lowers her voice slightly and leans forward. “It does not have to be his decision. If we think it's in the patient's best interest then-”

“-then he’d escape.” Mycroft sighs. “Simple as that.”

 

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

 

Sherlock eats like he hasn’t seen proper food in weeks, which, if he’s honest, isn’t so far from the truth. He gulps down his tea and crunches on his toast enthusiastically.

John sits on the other side of the bed and watches.

“I can almost see the colour returning to your cheeks,” he jokes.

“Hm,” Sherlock murmurs, looking up and giving John a shy smile. “I didn’t realise I was so hungry.”

“I can do you some more if you like?”

“That would be nice, John. Thank you.”

John gets up and disappears back to the kitchen. Sherlock hears the toaster click once more.

“Would you like honey on it this time?” John calls.

“Um, yes.” Sherlock’s voice comes out muffled because of the food in his mouth. “Not sure if there is any though-”

“-what? Oh.” John makes a disappointed sound. “There isn’t any. I’ll go and ask Mrs Hudson if we can borrow some.” He plods back to the bedroom and searches the room for his jeans and T-shirt, eventually finding them flung over the corner of the wardrobe.

Sherlock watches and smiles, a cheeky grin spreading across his face, “Don’t fancy sneaking down in just your boxers then?”

“Um,” John pretends to consider this for a second. “I don’t think so, no.”

“You could borrow one of my infamous dressing gowns?”

“Oh yeah,” John laughs, “Because that will be discreet. Even Mrs Hudson isn’t that slow Sherlock.”

“Hm,” Sherlock stops munching and contemplates this momentarily. “To be honest, she probably knows already. Bet she heard everything last night.”

“Oh god,” John tilts his head. “Maybe. You weren’t particularly quiet.”

“Speak for yourself!” Sherlock scoffs.

John laughs and disappears downstairs.

 

 

  
  
  
***

 

 

 

  
Claire sits back in her chair, a little exasperated.

“So, we’re back to simple medication again, is that what you’re saying?”

“I think…” Mycroft rests his hands underneath his chin. “This time he might be more motivated to take it.”

“Are you sure?

“As sure as I ever am...with him.”

Claire presses her hands together firmly. “Because, with all due respect Mr Holmes, last time simply administering methadone didn’t work. And that can’t happen again, can it?”

Mycroft feels a fresh stab of guilt, right in the stomach. It’s a reminder of his failure. _He_ couldn’t get Sherlock to take it, didn’t monitor him properly, was too busy with work, let things slip. He lowers his head. “I will watch him more closely this time. Collect it for him every day, whatever it takes.”

Claire sighs. “Well, if you’re sure rehabilitation won’t work, at the end of the day I can only advise you. So, as long as you’re certain I can authorize a new course of medication today and set the process in motion. He will have to be visited frequently by a healthcare professional though, and I think there needs to be a serious plan of action for mental health support too. Some kind of therapy or counselling or-”

Mycroft looks up. “Ok, fine. I agree.”

“Alright,” Claire types something on her computer. “I’ll put the prescriptions through, and…” She clears her throat delicately. “What about yourself?”

Mycroft narrows his eyebrows, taken aback. Offended, almost. “What about... me?”

“There are people you can talk to, you know, about this. You are allowed.”

“Ah,” Mycroft’s feels his chest tighten against his will. He exhales lightly and stands up. Why does he feel shaky all of a sudden? Like there’s somewhere else he should be? He gathers up his coat and hooks his umbrella on his arm, glancing sideways before making a beeline for the door.

“Wait,” Claire’s voice sounds too loud in his ears. Distorted. “There’s still lots of things for us to discuss. Mycroft-”

“I'll be in touch.”

The door bangs. He disappears along the corridor.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Sherlock finishes his last bite of toast and puts the plate down gently on the bedside table. He gets up and dresses quickly, just a plain white shirt and black trousers, before flopping back down on the bed, exhausted. John is still downstairs ransacking Mrs Hudson’s cupboards, and to be honest he’s grateful for the moment of solitude.

There’s never been so much data to process.

His mind whirs with it all. Sex. Intimacy. John. Guilt. Death. Drugs. Mary. Mycroft. Moriarty.

What the hell happens now?

He places his hands underneath his chin.

Even for him, the last 48 hours give new meaning to the words ‘fast-paced’. It’s obviously too much. He needs to process it. Catalogue every detail. Lay each moment out like sheets of paper to file away in his mind palace. There’s just so much he wants to remember. The caress of John’s hands, the feel of his fingertips on his skin, his moans, his tears, his smile, his words.

But then, there’s an awful lot he’d rather forget.

John’s fist swinging towards him. Mary’s eyes when she realised her two best friends had betrayed her. Mycroft's face at the hospital.

 _God_. He inhales sharply as his chest contracts. The damage he’s done. Guilt is an emotion he’s going to have to become accustomed to.

He glances across to his phone on the bedside table. He could start with his brother. What would please him? What would he want him to do?

Invent a time machine to go back and stop himself from ever taking drugs, probably.

He sighs. It’s a small gesture, but perhaps he could text him and let him know he’s ok. He picks up his phone and stares at the screen. It takes him a long time to force any words through his thumbs.

_‘Good afternoon. Just woken up. John is making me toast. SH’_

He hesitates a moment before pressing send. It feels odd texting his brother such trivial information, unrelated to a case or a family affair. In fact, it feels odd actively making the effort to text Mycroft at all.

He hears John come back up the stairs and go into the kitchen. Moments later, he comes through the door.

“Mrs Hudson was out, but I got the honey.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock smiles and takes the plate. He eats in silence as John searches the room for his socks and puts them on.

“So um…how are you feeling?” John says.  
  
“Fine. Better.” Sherlock swallows. “Bit shaky to be honest and my head hurts but you know  
other than that...ok.”

“Yeah?” John studies him carefully.

“Mmhm.” Sherlock puts down his plate.

“Because, err…” John narrows his eyes and sits down on the edge of the bed. “While I was downstairs I was thinking for a moment and, I wanted to say I’m really sorry for last night.” He clears his throat. “ _Really_ sorry.”

“Oh...um...” Sherlock wishes he could interrupt and change the subject but for once he has nothing to say. This has come from nowhere, caught him off-guard. “John…”

“No, Sherlock.” John strains and sits up straighter. “Just let me say this. I need to get it out.”

Sherlock waits. John pauses for a moment and rubs his head, struggling.

“Last night...after everything, what I did, it really wasn’t what you needed, alright? That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’ve always had a bit of a temper but that...that was…” He loses the words to continue. “I shouldn’t have treated you like that, no matter the circumstances, and I promise I _never_ will again.”

“Right.” Sherlock stares into space silently, remembering.

“I don’t want to be that person, ok? The person who suddenly loses it and fucks it all up. I am not that person.”

John’s voice is shaking and Sherlock notices he’s not looking up from his hands. He wonders if perhaps, really, he’s trying to convince himself.

“It’s ok.” He says, “I understand, and I err... obviously have a lot to apologise for.”

“Yeah,” John nods. “You do, but still-”

“John,” Sherlock reaches out and touches John’s shoulder. “It’s ok, I understand. We were both angry. I wound you up, even.”

“You did a bit.”

Sherlock laughs softly. “I suppose I’ve sort of always done that.”

The tension lifts slightly.

“Oh, I think you do it to everyone, not just me.” John leans a little closer.

“But I do like to annoy you especially.”

“I believe you.”

“Although Lestrade can be very tempting also. And sometimes Molly, although she rarely sees the funny side. And Mycroft, god, did I tell you I once snuck into his apartment and moved all of the furniture just five centimetres out of alignment? I nearly died laughing. He was livid. I taped his reaction and sent it to-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts.

“What?” The detective's smile fades suddenly, worried he’s said something he shouldn’t.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock feels a small flutter of warmth inside his chest. “I’ve missed you too, John.” He sighs softly. “I’ve missed you too.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

  
Mycroft tucks the packets of Methadone into the breast pocket of his coat and walks towards the car. It’s still raining. He nods to the driver as he approaches and slips into the backseat, tapping his fingers together in his lap.

_There are people you can talk to you know, about this. You are allowed._

He runs Claire’s voice over a few times in his head, rewinding it like a videotape. Replaying those...sympathetic eyes.

Urgh.

He shudders. He doesn’t need help. He’s fine. He’s always been fine, well for the most part anyway. He learnt a long time ago how to cope with the majority of his emotions. Much like Sherlock, he is able to shut off the right ones when it is convenient. It helps with the work. You can’t have a heart at the centre of the British Government, you need a brain. You need logic. Reason. Give up two agents for the release of thirty hostages? Done. Let a bomb go off in Iran to conceal the knowledge of vital British intelligence in the embassy? Fine. It’s not pleasant, it never is, but he can sleep at night. He’s the Iceman after all, isn’t he?

Well, not last night.

Last night was different. When it was Sherlock’s life on the line, _his_ little brother, he would have done _anything_ : begged, stolen, murdered, tortured. Anything to stop the pain. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t connect the dots and solve the problem. He had to walk away, so thank god John was there to bring him to his senses.

He hopes the army doctor is ok, that somehow last night they worked something out. It’s not fair for him to bear so much pain and heartbreak for his little brother, he never did anything to deserve it.

No. Mycroft takes a breath. He can’t let anything like this ever happen again. He must strive to be better, for all their sakes. Any more emotional turmoil might just be the end of them.

He slips his hands in his pockets and watches the world go by in the car window. London looks as lovely as ever, the rain painting a faint rainbow against the clouds, sunlight shining through and catching in the puddles. Perhaps this is a new beginning.

He tilts his head back and soon his eyelids are collapsing under the weight of a 27 hour day. He must have drifted off at some point because his head is lolling messily against his shoulder when his phone vibrates underneath his fingers. He twitches, not bothering to open his eyes. It would be very easy to just ignore it and go back to sleep but there’s a slim chance it could be Sherlock and-

_‘Good afternoon. Just woken up. John is making me toast. SH’_

It is! Mycroft sits up and reads the text several times over. His chest floods with relief once more. He’s ok. He’s awake. John is still with him. This is the best news he could have hoped for. He remembers the Methadone in his pocket and taps out a reply.

_‘Good. I am coming over. Expect me in 20 minutes.’_

 

 

 

  
***

 

 

 

  
Sherlock and John sit together on the bed for a while, enjoying the silence, the calm. Outside, trains rattle through the station and the afternoon traffic hums. The rain patters. Birds tweet outside the window. Eventually, John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

They say nothing.

Finally, they have peace.

 

 

  
***

 

 

  
Mary lies in bed for a measly three hours before giving up with the idea of sleeping. She must have drifted off at some point but it’s hard to be certain. She checks her phone. Nothing.

It’s laughable to think that only a matter of hours ago she was racing through London on a motorbike, thinking there were criminals to chase, an adventure to be had and a husband to save. But there wasn’t. She wasn’t needed. There was nothing. There _is_ nothing.

That word circles in her mind like an echo in a cave. A bitter end.

Unless…

Mary glances towards her rucksack slung beside the bedroom door.

 

 

  
***

 

 

   
Sherlock’s phone rings out into the stillness.

“A text from Mycroft,” he states as he picks it up. “He’s coming over.”

“Really?” John sits up on the bed and raises his eyebrows, clearly startled. “Already?”

“Guess so.” Sherlock scans John’s worried expression. “Problem?”

“Well err,” John turns and Sherlock notices the other man’s cheeks have flushed slightly. “It’s just that...he’ll deduce that we...you know, slept in the same bed. He’ll know because I probably smell of you or they’ll be a crease in my shirt or-”

“John,” Sherlock almost laughs. “He will but there’s nothing we can do about it. I doubt he’ll say anything. Perhaps make a passing comment at the most.”

“Urhh,” John stands up and crosses the room before attempting to flatten his hair down in the mirror. “Maybe if we tidied up a bit, messed up the bed upstairs and then he’d think-”

“Are you ashamed?”

The laughter has disappeared from Sherlock’s voice.

“What?” John turns. “No.”

Sherlock studies him for a second. “Apart from the obvious signs such as your flushed cheeks and the feeble attempt to flatten your hair you have also turned away from me and are now avoiding eye contact. Overall I’d say that’s pretty obvious body language John even you wouldn’t miss it. You’re ashamed.”

“No, it’s just,” John fumbles. “I’m not... _ashamed_. ”

Everything is still.

“I feel guilty.” John finally stutters. “Because of Mary, I feel awful that we did stuff so soon, it feels disrespectful and...wrong. I don’t know.”

“Wrong?” The words leave Sherlock's lips as a mumble. He casts his eyes to the floor.

“No, um, god,” John struggles, backpedalling. “Not wrong, that wasn’t a good way to put it, I mean... It’s just a shock, isn’t it? All of this, and we’ve gone quite fast and I still feel so... _bad_ about it.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sits silently for a moment, processing this information. “You feel bad about..us?”

John sighs. “Yes, kind of. I mean I feel guilty, for Mary, and because if I’m honest I’ve never really been comfortable with my own-”

At that very moment three loud knocks echo along the hallway and up the stairs. Sherlock straightens up immediately, snapped from his trance. “Mycroft.”

He gets up and promptly disappears from the room. John follows so it won’t be painfully obvious they’ve emerged from the same bedroom by the time Mycroft gets up the stairs. And, as predicted, he has just enough time to drop down in his chair and pretend to be on his phone by the time Mycroft and Sherlock renter the living room.

“Gosh… ” Mycroft’s nose crinkles in disgust as he walks in, the state of the flat clearly shocking him somewhat. He opens his mouth as if to make a comment but manages to stop himself just as his brother slopes in behind him. Instead, the older man forces a polite smile and sits himself down on the sofa. He scans John up and down.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Okay,” John tries, already feeling slightly self-conscious. He straightens his shirt. “Fine. Better.” He tries to divert the attention from him. “How about you? You look tired Mycroft.”

Which isn’t exactly a lie, deep bags circle the older man’s eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Mycroft says, wrinkles lining his temples as he gives one of his patronising smiles. “Although clearly, you two didn't have any trouble.”

 _Ouch_. There it is. The snide comment. John feels butterflies take flight in his stomach. From the pause that follows John guesses the same is happening to Sherlock too.

“Quite so,” the detective says hurriedly, crossing the room and sitting himself down in his chair. “In fact, I feel a lot better now so you can go and get some sleep, brother mine. John is here to look after me.”

“How sweet.” Mycroft crosses his legs to show he has no intention of going anywhere. “However, it is imperative that we discuss what is now the most important matter, your treatment.”

Sherlock snorts and looks away. “I don’t need... _treatment_.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I-”

“For god’s sake Sherlock,” Mycroft leans forward in his chair, lowering his voice a threatening octave. “You nearly died last night, and now your hands are shaking and your brow is sweating and we both know what those symptoms are the beginning of.” He takes a breath. “Withdrawal. Now please would you just listen to me-”

“I’m not going back to hospital.”

“You don’t have to.” Mycroft says, quieting his voice and trying to sound reassuring.“I’ve already been to the doctors and I’ve got some Methadone, the strongest available. I’ll have it collected every day and delivered here. All you need to do is promise me you’ll take it.”

Sherlock threads his hands together in his lap. He hesitates for a moment before looking across to John. “Fine. That might not be so taxing.”

“Promise?” Mycroft pushes.

“God what are we, children?” Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes before realising no one else is finding him funny. “Yes…” He says finally. “I promise.”

“Good. Because there is another thing,” Mycroft continues.

John tries to give Sherlock a reassuring look.

“And I hope it won’t offend you, Doctor Watson.”

“Me?” John replies, turning his head.

“In order to keep the hospital happy, and for my brother’s own good, I have agreed to two home visits a day from a doctor who specialises in treatment for addiction. I know you are a perfectly qualified GP John so please do not take this as an insult to your skills but I thought this might be simpler. That way you can sleep, go home and do not bear the responsibility of any complications. Of course, I do not doubt that every second you are here you will be doing your best to look after him, and for that I am very grateful.”

John opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock gets there first.

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

They all sit in silence for a moment.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock says eventually. “It was good of you to sort that out for me.”

“Well I never,” The older Holmes widens his eyes. If John isn’t mistaken it looks like his jaw might be about to drop open.

“What?” Sherlock looks irritated. “I’ve said the phrase ‘thank you’ before.”

“To me?” Mycroft quips. “Have you?”

“Oh be quiet.” Sherlock scoffs. “Astonishment doesn’t suit you.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

  
Mary sits on her bedroom floor and shoves her things into her bag too quickly to give her mind a chance to catch up.

Everything goes into the rucksack. Passport, socks, a torch, nappies for Rosie - wait - her mind races, is she going to take Rosie? Molly would probably look after her. But for how long? And what does she give as the reason?

Malice swamps her unexpectedly, corrupting her thoughts.

How about if she just took her? How would John react? What if she just took Rosie far away and never told him. Never let him say goodbye. She could outrun Mycroft for at least six months, maybe a year, and go to Asia, Cambodia. Find somewhere to settle. A fucking shack or something. They’d be fine there. It’d be a punishment. John broke her heart so now she’ll break his. Make him suffer.

 _Urgh_.

Mary sits back on her heels and brings her hands to her face. Exasperated. Upset. What is she saying? She would never do that. In fact, it hurts to even think about it. What is this anguish doing to her?

It’s not right. She needs to get a grip, straighten things out. Get away for a while and clear her head. Run.

So it’s decided then. Rosie stays with Molly.

That way, Mary thinks, she has a reason to come back.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

John pretends to be reading a newspaper and Mycroft pretends to be on his phone while the doctor, Mark, tells a very bored Sherlock Holmes how to take Methadone.

“I have taken it before,” the detective reiterates.

“Then you know the drill.” Mark puts his jacket on the back of the desk chair and pushes his glasses further up his nose before he continues. Sherlock sits opposite him.

“I’m going to inject your first dose of 30mg now, and then I’ll top you up with another 10mg in four hours. Then we’ll need to give you 20mg twice a day for the next couple of days.”

“Christ that’s a lot,” Mycroft mutters from the sofa.

“I’m afraid he’ll need it,” Mark says, turning to face the older Holmes briefly before turning his attention back to Sherlock. “I will be visiting you every couple of hours to see how you’re doing. And then I’ll come over and assess you again tomorrow. Got that?”

“Yes,” Sherlock huffs, looking bored. “I am aware. I have done this before.”

“Well you can’t have done it very well otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Sherlock scowls. The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitches.

Mark bends down to open his medical case while he continues. “Now I understand from your brother you’re already experiencing some early withdrawal symptoms. Could you outline them briefly for me?”

“Well um,” Sherlock leans back in his chair and undoes the top button of his shirt, looking slightly embarrassed. “I feel very hot, for a start. And shaky, lightheaded and a bit...sick.” He wipes a layer of sweat from his forehead.

John continues to stare at the paper and tries to hide the mix of concern and jealousy from his face. He’s normally always the one asking Sherlock the questions.

“So nauseous?” Mark notes.

“Mm,” Sherlock nods.

“Ok, you may be sick several times in the next few hours.” Mark leans down to his suitcase and gets out the instrument used to measure blood pressure. Sherlock rolls up his sleeve. “The methadone will help subside these symptoms a little but it’s still going to be difficult. The cravings are strongest in the first 24 to 48 hours, and this is when relapse is most likely. I take it you’re not going to be alone?”

“No, we will be here,” Mycroft states firmly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“That would be advisable.” Mark replies, “Methadone can cause extreme drowsiness and slowed breathing, which is most likely during the first few hours and when I increase the dose for the second time.” He straps the blood pressure instrument around Sherlock’s arm and takes the reading. “Hm, still a little high but that’s to be expected. Your temperature is high too but not dangerously so. I think we can continue with the treatment.”

Mycroft lets out a breath.

They all stay quiet as Mark tightens Sherlock’s upper arm off with a strap and finds a vein. Nothing is said about the purple scars and bruises that line the underside of Sherlock’s forearm. Mycroft promptly casts his eyes to the window.

“Ah,” Sherlock lets his head fall back and sighs heavily as the drug goes in, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. “That feels good.” His voice drops deeper as he draws out the words. “Really good…”

John purses his lips. _He’s not meant to be bloody enjoying it_ , he thinks. He looks across to Mycroft and senses he’s feeling the same.

Once he’s finished Mark cleans the needle and starts packing everything away. He writes down his phone number on a card and leaves it on the table before shaking hands with Mycroft and heading towards the door. He smiles optimistically. “I’ll be back in four hours but just call me if you need me before, or obviously go back to hospital if there’s an emergency.” He waits patiently for a reply but doesn’t get one. “You got that, Sherlock?”

“Mm,” The detective mumbles, his head still tilted back and his eyes closed. His arm lays limply at his side.

“Of course.” Mycroft revises. “I do apologise for the state of my brother. Thank you, Mark. I’ll show you out.” The older Holmes gives one of his polite smiles and closes the flat door behind them.

Sherlock gets up from the desk and flops himself down on the sofa, dramatically covering his eyes with his arm.

“You okay?” John asks wearily.

“Mm,” Sherlock crinkles his eyes and scrunches his knees to his chest. “I’m cold now.”

“Do you need a blanket?” John gets up from his chair and walks over to the sofa.

“No,” Sherlock holds his arms out weakly. “I need something warmer.”

“Like what?” John looks cluelessly over his shoulder before realising what Sherlock means. “Me? What? No Sherlock your brother is about to come back upstairs any second.”

“I don’t care.” Sherlock protests. “I need a cuddle.”

“You would care. Clearly those drugs are already working wonders for you.”

“Hmph, maybe.” The detective stifles a giggle. “I do feel quite relaxed now.” He turns and squishes his face into the sofa.

“Well that makes one of us.” John crosses his arms and sighs with relief when Mycroft renters the room. “He’s gone silly, Mycroft.” He says, gesturing to the mess of a man on the sofa. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Uh, well Methadone can give a sort of relaxed high apparently, especially at this dosage.”

Sherlock laughs and rolls over before sloppily starting to undo his shirt.

“What are you doing?!” John asks, immediately alarmed the detective is about to start trying to initiate something he shouldn’t.

“Hot,” Sherlock slurs. “I’m hot again now.”

“Oh for god’s sake.” Mycroft rolls his eyes and shrugs off his jacket before crossing the room and sitting down. “You better put the kettle on John. This is going to be a long couple of days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Please let me know! Thank you ever so much for taking the time to read my work at all, it really means a lot to me.


End file.
